


The Angry Man Job

by DarkwingDukat (pushingcrazies)



Series: Operation: Cereal [2]
Category: Leverage
Genre: Army, Bullying, Each chapter will also contain content warnings based on what's happening in that chapter, Eliot Spencer's background fic, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Multi, Racism, Therapy, Things this fic will deal with include:, con fic, more tags to come
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:35:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 65,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25108579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pushingcrazies/pseuds/DarkwingDukat
Summary: Something has been a little off with Eliot lately, and it's causing a rift between him and Parker and Hardison. Nate needs his team to function cohesively and harmoniously, so he decides to nip the problem in the bud by sending Eliot to therapy, for a con.Really, it's only for a con.(Takes place a couple weeks after TBJ, but it is not necessary to read TBJ if you are uncomfortable with PWP. This fic can function as a stand-alone.)
Relationships: Aimee Martin/Eliot Spencer, Alec Hardison/Parker/Eliot Spencer, Eliot Spencer/OMC
Series: Operation: Cereal [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1818454
Comments: 169
Kudos: 250





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you're reading this fic having started with TBJ, welcome! Our fave OT3 is not quite at the same point they were when that fic ended; some time has passed and things have not gone smoothly. What could possibly have happened?!
> 
> If you have not started with TBJ, no worries! I understand that PWP is not everyone's cup of tea. This fic will have less of the porn and more of the con. Any references to things I set up in TBJ will be explained as though for the first time here.
> 
> This fic does deal with some heavy themes, including institutionalized racism, mental illness, anger management, PTSD, homophobia, internalized homophobia, and bullying. Each chapter will include warnings at the beginning, so please be mindful of those and choose to read or not read as you feel comfortable.
> 
> The first chapter contains references to racism, stereotypes, mention of canon-typical violence, and a few racial slurs.

TW: Ethnic slurs

T-plus-2 days

_ Excerpt of official transcript from Patient E.S.’s first one-on-one therapy session in the Pacific Northwest Addiction and Recovery Institute, Anger Counselling and Management Center. _

**00:32 [Knock on wooden door]**

**00:35 Doctor Lehman:** Come in.

**00:40 Patient E.S.:** Doc?

**00:41 DL:** Yes, hello. How are you? Have a seat.

**00:52 ES:** On the couch?

**00:55 DL:** Wherever you prefer. Some people like the couch, others think it’s too, you know, “therapy-ish.”

**01:10 ES:** Ain’t that the point?

**01:12 [Rustling overlaid with] DL:** Generally, yes. But it’s more difficult for some people to connect with our goals here if they’re worried about where they sit. I don’t mind either way.

**01:59 ES:** Oh.

**02:05 DL:** How are you settling in at the Institute? Any concerns?

**02:20 ES:** Not really. It seems pretty straightforward. I go to therapy, I learn to meditate, and at the end of six weeks, I have my anger under control. I’m lucky to be here.

**03:01 DL:** “Lucky?”

**03:05 ES:** Well, yeah, I mean…it’s a helluva lot better’n jail.

**03:32 DL:** Was it a judge who referred you to us?

**03:45 ES:** Ain’t that in my file?

**03:55 [Papers rustling] DL:** Yes, here it is. Judge Thomas Pratt.

**04:30 ES:** Yeah.

**04:34 DL:** Why don’t we start by you telling me about the incident that brought you to Judge Pratt.

**05:05 ES:** It should all be in there.

**05:27 DL:** I would like to hear it in your own words.

**[Silence]**

**07:38 DL:** Ethan?

**07:45 ES:** I beat a guy. With a frozen turkey.

**08:12 [Pause] DL:** Can you give me a little more information?

**08:36 ES:** Sure, I...yeah. Okay.

\---

T-minus-5 Days. The Brewpub.

A loud crash followed by swearing drifted from the kitchen into the main dining area of the brewpub. Nate looked up from his phone with a frown. The restaurant wasn’t open yet, so the only people around were the staff, busy setting up for the day, and the Leverage crew. Clatters and swearing weren’t unusual, but there was a particular venom to this bout that disturbed Nate. He knew Eliot was in the kitchen, recognized his cadence and flow of cursing. One of the servers fled the kitchen, stalking towards the bathroom, about to burst into tears.

Hardison stumbled downstairs, still dazed and half-asleep. “I heard a crash.”

Nate pointed to the kitchen. Hardison’s shoulders dropped, and Nate could have sworn he saw real trepidation in his eyes. A little hesitation at the very least. “Nate…”

Nate raised his eyebrows. “It’s your restaurant.”

“He won’t listen to me.”

“Not my circus, not my monkey.”

Hardison stared at him. “What the hell does that even mean?”

Another bang, more cursing, and Eliot stormed out of the kitchen, zeroing in on Hardison, who was still frozen in place. “You,” he snarled, jabbing a finger in Hardison’s direction. “Did you make it a special mission to only hire incompetents? It wasn’t bad enough you bought this stupid place and put together the worst menu I’ve ever seen, you had to staff it with clumsy, degenerate hipsters, too?”

Hardison’s jaw dropped. Nate winced, concentrating on the email on his phone, not really reading it, just needing something to keep him out of the conversation. Whatever was going on with Eliot, he was determined to stay out of the middle.

Eliot was not acting like himself. He’d been off for almost two weeks now, sniping and holding himself apart from the team nearly as much as he had when they first started working together. Generally speaking, he reserved the worst of his ire for Hardison, and occasionally Parker. He had a shorter fuse than usual for Parker’s abnormalities and Hardison’s, well, mere existence. He even snapped at Sophie and Nate a few times. But he left other people alone.

Until now.

Making servers cry and yelling at chefs in their own kitchens was so off-brand for Eliot that Nate was genuinely becoming concerned. His instincts told him to step in, get Eliot back in line. Hardison was right: Eliot didn’t listen to anyone the way he listened to Nate. But that was exactly why Nate  _ didn’t _ want to interfere. Hardison and Parker needed to learn to deal with Eliot on their own.

Nate sighed, all pretense of the phone forgotten as he watched Hardison and Eliot now squabbling like a couple of children. Eliot was supposed to be the  _ easy  _ one, the one who didn’t need Nate’s guidance or reassurances. He was resourceful and self-sufficient and generally pretty good at knowing when he needed some time to himself. Hell, half the time Eliot was keeping Nate in line just as much as Nate did for him. Whatever was eating at him now must be big to have him in such a godawful snit.

“Client’s not here yet?” Sophie slid into the booth next to Nate, eyes also on Hardison and Eliot. “Why are they fighting this time?”

Eliot slapped the towel he was holding onto his shoulder, threw one last cutting remark at Hardison, and stalked back toward the kitchen. “Don’t know,” Nate murmured to Sophie, mind not really on her at all as he watched Hardison slump down. “But - hang on. Soph, would you mind sitting this one out? Just the meet and greet.”

Sophie gave him a curious look. “Do you have something in mind?”

“Not sure yet.” He gave her a little nudge until she stood up and he could extricate himself from the booth. “I just think I want Eliot to sit in on this one with me. Stay close, though.”

Sophie moved to a nearby table, pulled out a book that Nate knew she wouldn’t really be reading. Nate went over to Hardison, who was now looking nearly as murderous as Eliot. Nate sighed inwardly. If Hardison was in a mood, Parker would be soon to follow, which would create a feedback loop of short tempers. In spite of his wish to leave them to sort things out on their own, he might need to intervene sooner than later. “You’ve got a server crying in the bathroom. Go see if she needs anything. I’ll get Eliot out of the kitchen.”

Hardison threw his head back in exaggerated relief. “Thank you. Thank you.  _ Thank you. _ ” He turned and walked quickly towards the restroom.

Nate watched him for a moment. He had about ten minutes to get Eliot out of the kitchen before the brewpub opened to the public and their client was due to arrive. Hers was the email Nate had been pretending to read earlier. “Hey Eliot!” Nate called from the kitchen doorway, loud enough to be heard over the general commotion.

“What?” Eliot shouted back from where he was chopping vegetables.

“I need you out here.”

“I’m a little busy!”

Nate didn’t say anything, just waited. Eliot glanced up, saw he hadn’t left, clenched his jaw and fists, then finally - blessedly - set the knife down. Untied his apron and crumpled it up along with his towel. Stormed over to Nate. “These idiots don’t know what they’re doing with the new additions I made, they -”

“- will be just fine without you for half an hour,” Nate assured him. “C’mon, we’ve got a client.”

“Sophie’s here,” Eliot said.

“Nah, I want you with me. Something happened to this young lady’s father. She seemed pretty upset in the email. Might need a strong shoulder to cry on.”

An invitation that would normally pique Eliot’s interest, this time it made him go stiff, Nate noted. Whatever bug had crawled up Eliot’s ass did not seem like it could be extricated by the prospect of helping a damsel in distress. Interesting. Still, Eliot acquiesced. “Fine. But then I’m heading straight back to the kitchen.”

“By all means.” Nate went back to the booth he had been sitting in earlier; Eliot took the bench across from him.

“What’s the case?”

Nate opened his phone to the email and passed it over. The message was brief and to the point: 

“Dear Mr. Ford,

“My name is Tasya Mukadhar and I was given your contact information by a friend. My father was attacked a couple months ago. He is recovering, but the courts let his attacker get away. This man is very dangerous, and I’m afraid he will attack someone else. Is this something you help with? My friend says that you do, but I don’t know. How can you overturn a court decision?

“Thank you for your time.

“Tasya”

“What makes you think this is a case for us?” Eliot asked. “There’s not a lot of information here.”

“I found some information on Tasya -”

“Tasha.”

“What?”

Eliot passed the phone back to Nate. “Bet you anything it’s pronounced Tasha, not Tas-ya. Looks Malaysian or Indonesian, and they pronounce ‘s-y’ as ‘sh.’”

Nate opened his mouth to argue - why not just spell it Tasha, then? - but decided to bypass the point. It wasn’t relevant quite yet. “Well, I found Tas- er, Ms. Mukadhar online, but couldn’t find anything about her father. I wanted to meet with her to get more information. If she is legit, maybe we can help. If not, then I’d like to find out what her game is.”

Eliot nodded but didn’t say anything. The irritation had left his eyes, the frown lines smoothed out now that he had a puzzle to focus on. Behind Nate, the hostess turned the door sign to “OPEN” and flipped on the main lights. A few early bird patrons filtered in, tourists by the looks of them. But there, just after them, came a young woman: late twenties, large sunglasses in spite of the overcast day, hair thrown up in a messy bun that was actually messy instead of careless-chic. She had a leery but determined look on her face. Certainly their client. Sure enough, the woman said something to the hostess, who nodded and led her over to Nate’s booth.

“Mr. Ford?”

Eliot slid out of his side of the booth to offer her a seat as she shook Nate’s hand. He pulled a chair over from another table rather than share with Nate. “Yes, that’s me,” Nate assured the woman. “Would you be Ms. Mukadhar?”

“Tasya,” the young woman said, pronouncing it with a ‘sh’ sound. Nate shot a look at Eliot, who raised an ‘I-told-you-so’ eyebrow.

“A pleasure to meet you, Tasya. This is my associate, Eliot.” Nate sat forward, leaning his arms on the table. “How are you?”

Tasya’s jaw clenched ever so slightly. “Pissed off, if I may be frank, Mr. Ford.”

Nate sat back, giving her more space. “Would you like to tell me what happened?”

“This - this  _ city _ is full of hypocrites and assholes. It’s supposed to be a progressive, wonderful, colorblind town that actually cares about its citizens, but it’s not. It’s just as racist and backwards as the rest of the country.”

Before Nate could think of a question that would swing Tasya’s diatribe around to what she needed their help with, Eliot reached a hand out to Tasya’s which rested on the table. She glared at it, then at him. But once she saw the gentle look on Eliot’s face - the expression he only wore around friends and children and women in distress, the one that always made Nate wonder how many layers his hitter hid - she relaxed. “Why don’t you start at the beginning,” Eliot suggested.

Tasya took a deep breath. “My family moved to the States when I was two years old,” she said. “My mother is from here. She was teaching ESL in Jakarta when she met my father. They fell in love and got married and had me. But my mom had to return to the States. Indonesia isn’t very trusting of foreigners, especially white ones, so they told her they wouldn’t renew her visa again.

“We started out in Eugene before moving to Portland when I was ten. It was kind of an adjustment. Oregon in general is not very diverse, but at least Eugene has the University of Oregon, so I spent my elementary years around people from all over the world, especially Asia. The schools all tell us not to be racist, but they don’t teach us what systematic racism is or microaggressions or implicit bias. They certainly don’t teach us how to fight those things. My white friends all figured that as long as they didn’t use racial slurs then they couldn’t possibly be racist.

“Growing up, I heard all sorts of terrible and demeaning things being said to my father. He speaks English really well, but of course it’s not always perfect. People will say things like ‘I think you mean  _ this _ not  _ that _ ’ really condescendingly. Or if I’m out with just my mother, they will ask her where she adopted me from. And then there’s the overt racists. The ones who loudly complain about all the foreigners or who speak to my dad like he’s deaf or doesn’t understand simple English. Or the ones who call him Chink or Paki because they don’t even bother to find out where he’s from before breaking out the slurs.”

Eliot nodded. “Portland has a pretty decent progressive front, but Oregon in general has a terrible history of racism and segregation.”

Tasya grunted her agreement. She took a sip of water with the hand not being held by Eliot. “My dad was attacked by a racist asshole bigot. This - this fucker was arguing with my dad in a Safeway parking lot about something stupid. My dad can’t remember on account of the massive head injury he was given. The asshole claims my dad stole a parking spot that he was signalling for. He told the courts he just saw red and couldn’t control himself and he hit him. That’s  _ not _ true, Mr. Ford. He waited for my dad to go into the store, grab a couple of items, and return to his car. And  _ then _ he attacked him.”

She pushed a manila folder towards Nate, who opened it up. It was a mixture of official reports and photographs as well as handwritten notes and printouts of pictures that probably came from a phone camera. Most likely Tasya’s.

“This judge, this - Judge Pratt - he technically ruled in my dad’s favor, but the ruling...it -” Here, she faltered for words, taking her time. She slipped her hand out from under Eliot’s. “It’s bullshit. He sent my dad’s attacker, Adrian Huber, to this clinic that has an inpatient anger management program.” She slipped a couple of pamphlets out of the stack of papers in front of Nate: one was for the Pacific Northwest Addiction and Recovery Institute while the other was specifically for the Anger Management program. Both depicted stock photos of smiling white people on sprawling green lawns, with the odd person of color peppered in. “It’s a six week program, and then he has to complete another hundred hours of community service and pay all of my dad’s hospital bills. No jail time.”

“Hm,” Nate said. He stole a quick glance at her over the pamphlet. “But programs like these...isn’t that the ultimate goal? Keeping people out of prison and instead setting them up for rehabilitation?”

Tasya’s eyes flashed. “Normally, I’d say yes, especially if he was from a minority population that’s overrepresented in the prison system.” She spoke like she was reciting a poli-sci thesis. He wouldn’t be surprised if she had a degree in criminal justice or sociology or something. “Or if he did actually have some poorly developed control that’s been reinforced by society’s hypermasculinization. But that’s not the case. His attack was premeditated and deliberate. He’s just another white upper middle class man who thinks he can do whatever he wants with no consequences.”

Nate dropped the pamphlet back into the mess of papers and gathered them all up. “So how do you think we can help?”

“Honestly? I’m not sure you can.”

“Then what is it you want?”

Tasya bit her lip, considering. “I want him to face justice. Real justice. Not just a little tap on his knuckles. He attacked someone once, who knows if he’ll do it again. Shit, he may have done it to others before and it was swept under the rug.”

The wheels in Nate’s head were already turning. If she’d wanted to destroy his rep and leave him bankrupt, that wouldn’t have been difficult. They did that all the time. But to overturn a sentence after a judge ruled… 

Eliot fished a paper out of the pile. “We should look into this judge, too. See if he has a history of judging less harshly when the defendant is a white guy.”

That was all but a guaranteed yes. Nate nodded, rubbing his chin. Eliot was on board, and that was good because the plan that was forming would require him to go all in. “Okay, Tasya. We’ll take your case.”

Most clients at this point would express relief and gratitude. Nate certainly wasn’t unsettled that Tasya did neither. She merely gave him a tight smile, wariness exuding from every inch of her. “Thanks,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll do your best.”

She made it sound like  _ she _ was doing  _ them _ a favor by letting them take on her father’s case. And she was not expecting them to succeed. It only spurred Nate to prove her wrong. She shook his hand one last time, then Eliot’s, allowing Eliot to escort her to the door.

Sophie slid into the booth next to Nate, giving him a  _ Look _ . “What are you thinking?”

Nate squinted, ran the scenarios through his mind rapid-fire. “I’ve got some ideas.”

\---

T-minus-3 Days. Leverage, Inc. HQ

“Okay, Hardison, run it.”

Hardison cracked his knuckles and picked up his remote to start the briefing. Things between him and Eliot had not improved much over the last couple of days, Nate could tell. Eliot was standing further back from the group, looming, arms crossed. As for Hardison, normally he would verbally poke and spar with Eliot before a briefing, but not today. Instead, he was studiously looking anywhere but at their hitter.

“This is our mark: 38-year-old Adrian Huber, software engineer. Grew up in New Mexico, came to Portland twenty years ago to start working in tech with no formal training. He just sort of picked it up and ran with it. He was lucky enough that a little indie firm was willing to hire him on without a degree, and he’s been on the rise ever since. Now he makes a neat little six-figure salary with Intel doing some pretty intensive stuff that I  _ know _ none o’ y’all would understand,” Hardison said. He clicked the remote and a picture of an Asian man came up.

“Our client’s father, Yani Muhammad Undar. 52. Born in Yo...Yog… a little village in Indonesia.”

Nate glanced at Eliot, expecting him to jump in with the correct pronunciation like he had with Tasya’s name. He didn’t.

“Hold up,” Nate said before Hardison could move on. “Undar? Tasya’s last name is Mukadhar.”

Hardison pointed at him. “Ding ding ding, give the man a prize. Fun fact, in Indonesia, having a family name is pretty uncommon. You can give your children whatever names you want. Since Tasya was born over there, they went with the Indonesian naming style.”

“Isn’t the mother American, though?” Parker asked. “Why not use her surname?”

Hardison shrugged. “I don’t know, and my research is good but it ain’t that good. It doesn’t tell me what goes on in people’s heads. Besides, they’re our client, not the mark.”

“That would explain why Nate didn’t find any information on the father,” Sophie mused. “I assume you were looking for someone with the same surname?”

Nate nodded. “Yeah. Okay, so the attack, then?”

Hardison pulled up the police report. It was pretty sparse. “Mr. Undar suffered head trauma and had difficulty remembering what happened right before the assault. There were a few eye-witness reports, but they were pretty inconsistent. There wasn’t any street cameras that caught what happened, so the jury pretty much only had Huber’s word to rely on. He  _ claims _ that Mr. Undar stole his parking spot and he just went into a fit of rage. Mr. Undar insists that he went into the store and came back out before Huber attacked him. Unfortunately, they don’t have any hard evidence that happened, and with his memory being affected by the trauma, the jury wasn’t convinced that Huber was guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.”

Nate raised his eyebrows. “Are we convinced?”

“There are a few pretty big holes and inconsistencies in Huber’s story,” Hardison said. “Plus I did some digging on Huber. He’s not exactly joined up with the Ku Klux Klan, but he has had a few disagreements at work big enough to bring in HR for mediation, and all of them have been with people of color. He follows a few pages on Facebook, too, that aren’t  _ overtly _ racist but definitely walk that line. Neighborhood Watch type pages where every ‘suspicious person’ lurking in the area is either Black or Hispanic.”

“Well, I mean, sure,” Nate said. “So the guy isn’t exactly Joe Multicultural. But it’s a pretty big step from being prejudiced to actively attacking a man in cold blood.”

Hardison held up a hand, gesturing for Nate to slow his roll. “I hear you, man, but I gotta be honest. This dude is sendin’ up all sorts of red flags for me.” He looked at each of them, even craning his neck back to look at Eliot, however briefly. “It ain’t as big a step as you think it is.”

Nate nodded, conceding the point. “Okay, Hardison. That’s absolutely fair. So Huber is pretty regularly a dick when it comes to people of color. Finally one pushes just the wrong button and he decides to teach him a lesson. He pleads not guilty, that it was a crime of passion. And the judge finds him guilty, but hands over a light sentence. Anything on the judge?”

“I’m still going through his old rulings,” Hardison said, “but he definitely has a pattern of handing out punishments on a scale system of his own devising. The darker your skin, the harsher your punishment. Not exactly illegal, nor even something he’s probably aware of.”

“No,” Nate said, thinking. “Still, look deep into his bank accounts and holdings. I want to rule out the idea that Huber could have slipped a bribe his way for a more lenient sentence.”

“Got it.”

“What’s the play?” Parker asked.

Hardison grinned broadly for a moment before seeming to realize something and easing it back a bit. “We gotta get a guy into this rehab center.” He clicked his remote again, pulling up a mugshot of Eliot. It might even have been one of his real ones, although the name, date, and charge had been changed on his identification slate. “Ta-daaa.”

Nate looked over at Eliot, who was slowly turning red. “Are...you….kidding me?” he snarled.

“Everyone, meet Ethan Scott. Ethan is 33 years old, married, no kids, ex-military. Currently works as a paramedic. Nasty temper, got a history of getting into bar fights. And then he snapped right before Thanksgiving and beat the ever-lovin’ shit out of a dude who was trying to take his frozen turkey out of Ethan’s cart. You know how some people get around the holidays. Very stressful time.” One more click brought up a new picture, this one of Hardison that had been artfully Photoshopped until his face was nearly unrecognizable under a myriad of injuries. Blood ran down from his hairline, his nose looked broken, one cheek was bruised, one eye swollen shut, lip cut and oozing blood. It looked so real that Sophie gasped.

Nate still happened to be looking at Eliot when the picture came up, so he saw the way Eliot blanched and looked away. Nate frowned. Eliot had no problem with injuries. Why did he look so nauseated now?

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Hardison asked, unaware of how white the man behind him had gone.

“That’s - what the hell did you do?” Eliot demanded. “Why me?”

Hardison tapped his finger to his chin mockingly. “Why did I choose our resident violence junkie to play the raging lunatic who needs to learn to meditate and chill out?”

“I ain’t a grifter. Send Nate in; he loves doing the playacting shit.”

“This was Nate’s idea.”

Eliot’s eyes snapped to Nate, who did his best to look innocent. “I’ll have a role at some point, probably as a doctor or a lawyer or something. I was thinking it might be time to bring Papadokalis out of retirement and -”

Eliot growled deep in his throat. “I know how to control my anger.”

“Of course you do, Eliot,” Nate said. “It’s just a role. Right?”

He had caught Eliot in a catch-22. Eliot either agreed with Nate that it was just a role and that he had no real objections to being sent into an Anger Management program to take down a mark, or he had to admit that his anger really hadn’t been under control the last few weeks and that he was compromised. If the latter, then the Institute could be exactly what he needed anyway. Nate hadn’t had such a well-timed confluence of events since sending Parker off to jury duty.

After a prolonged tense moment, Eliot’s shoulders relaxed. “Right,” he said. “Just a role. But dude, why the fuck did you do that to your face?” he asked Hardison.

Hardison shrugged. “It’s just Photoshop. Took me about ten hours to do such a thorough job.”

“This is good, no, yeah,” Nate said. “This is perfect. Playing the race angle. Maybe Huber will see a kindred spirit in this, uh, Ethan Scott.” He was careful not to say Eliot’s name. Separating the role from the actor was essential here, when the ice under Eliot’s feet was so thin already.

Eliot shook his head, clearly still angry but not wanting to push any further. “Fine. Fuckin’ fantastic.”

“Okay?” Nate asked the crew. “We’re good?”

“Wait, one more question,” Sophie asked, tilting her head as she looked at the screen. “You said Ethan Scott is married?”

“Oh, uh, yeah.” Hardison suddenly looked really shifty, fidgeting more than usual. “But, uh, I don’t know if we’ll really need that angle; it was just a contingency in case we had to, uh - but no, I don’t think we’ll -  _ hey _ .”

Eliot snatched the remote from Hardison and jabbed at buttons until a new picture came up: Eliot and Parker shopped onto a park bench together. Eliot looked happy and relaxed, arms sprawled over the back of the bench, while Parker was leaning forward, laughing so hard she looked like she might be crying. Nate’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline.

“Just in case we need to sneak Parker in for something. She can come in as your wife during visiting hours,” Hardison murmured, so quietly Nate almost missed it.

Eliot threw the remote down onto the couch and stormed out the door that led to the brewpub stairs.

“Well,” Nate said into the tense silence that followed Eliot’s departure. “Let’s go steal a temper.”

\---

T-plus-2 days

_ Excerpt of official transcript from Patient E.S.’s first one-on-one therapy session in the Pacific Northwest Addiction and Recovery Institute, Anger Counselling and Management Center. _

**08:45 ES:** I… the local Safeway was havin’ a sale on turkeys. For Thanksgiving. So I get there a little early, right? I got people to feed, I need to make sure I get a big enough turkey. I find the biggest one they got. There’s people all over the turkeys, some of them gettin’ a little pushy. So I get mine and get out of there, put it in my cart. And I go over to look at frozen pie crusts. Debatin’ should I get the graham cracker crust or the regular. And as I’m over there, this guy - this big fuckin’ - excuse me -

**10:15 DL:** Don’t worry about your language. I’ve heard worse.

**10:26 ES:** This big, er, Black guy comes up and takes the turkey right outta my cart! So I go, “Hey, man, you blind? That’s my turkey.” And he looks me up and down, thinks ‘cause he’s bigger’n me that I can’t do shit to him. And he goes, “What are you gonna do about it?”

**12:07 DL:** Is that when you hit him with the turkey?

**12:43 ES:** I don’t like bullies.

**12:46 DL:** You felt bullied by this man?

**12:55 ES:** Bullies think they can take whatever they want because they’re bigger or stronger - or at least they think they are. He wasn’t countin’ on me being faster and stronger than him.

**13:49 DL:** You sound proud about that. Is your strength something you pride yourself on?

**13:50 [Silence]**

**14:42 ES [softly]:** Yeah.

\---

T+Zero Hour. The PNW Addiction and Recovery Institute.

Eliot walked into the Institute like a man condemned to the gallows. Huber had been in the program for just over a week, which meant Eliot could be there for up to five. He fervently hoped that it would not take that long to break the mark, get him to admit he’d attacked Mr. Undar consciously and premeditatedly. The tricky part was he needed Huber to admit it out loud in front of witnesses - better yet, in an angry outburst. He would need to get under Huber’s skin, really dig deep, gain his trust and get access to all his dirty little secrets. Then pull the rug out from under him. It was going to take  _ work. _

Well, Eliot never backed down from a challenge. Nevertheless, he didn’t have to be happy about it. Besides, the hangdog look worked beautifully for the character he was meant to be playing: a man who didn’t quite understand how he had gotten to this point. A man who was crying out for help, and the Institute was his last hope.

He followed the signs to the Anger Counselling and Management wing and found a locked door. A helpful little sign told him to ring the buzzer.

_ “Anger Counselling and Management, how may I help you? _ ”

Eliot cleared his throat. “Uh, my name is Ethan Scott. I’m supposed to be admitted today?”

The door lock clicked. “ _ Come on through. _ ”

The door opened up into a small reception area. There was a desk to Eliot’s right, behind which stood a smiling young lady. To his left was a doorway. Straight ahead was another set of doors, which presumably led to the program's main area.

“Hi, I’m Becky,” the young woman said. “I’ve got some forms for you to fill out, Mr. Scott.” As she spoke, a man in scrubs stepped into the reception from the interior doors. He stood a head taller than Eliot but didn’t have nearly the same muscle mass. Eliot zeroed in on at least seven weak points; if he had to, he could easily take this man down.

Except, that wasn’t the point of being here. And it definitely wasn’t a problem that Eliot’s mind immediately jumped to that.

“- then Tommy here will get you situated and make sure you don’t have any contraband,” Becky was saying. It was an annoyingly cheerful name for an annoyingly cheerful girl. At least she was easy on the eyes. Not like Tommy, who was decidedly difficult on the eyes.

“I don’t have any weapons,” Eliot told her as he took the clipboard she offered and began filling out boxes with his alias’ information. He’d tried to convince Nate to let him sneak in one of his smaller knives, but Nate had vetoed that idea. No matter - it wouldn’t take him long to cobble one together, just to keep under his pillow at night. He had no intention of using it, but you just never knew, nor could you be too careful.

“Weapons aren’t the only thing banned from the Center, Mr. Scott,” Becky explained. “We believe that in order to recenter your mind, it first must be completely clear. No mind altering substances, no tobacco products, no little flasks that you swear are mostly orange juice.”

“The world ain’t free of caffeine and tobacco, sweetheart,” Eliot said. Ethan was supposed to be the sort of person who got into bar fights, so Eliot let him be a little combative. “You don’t give us our little distractions, how is what we learn here gonna help us out there?”

Becky’s bright smile had turned into a distinctive Customer Service smile - the sort that said ‘I’m only still being polite because I have to be.’ “You’ll understand more as you learn about the program. Are you finished with the forms? Great! Now, if you’ll follow Tommy into the intake room?”

Eliot glared at Tommy’s back as he followed the taller man into the room to his left. No alcohol wasn’t a surprise, and Eliot didn’t smoke. But no morning coffee? Eliot didn’t allow himself many unhealthy habits, but that was one indulgence he never went without.

The next few weeks were going to be hell.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: homophobia, homophobic slurs, original character death, underage drinking and non-explicit sex

T-plus-2 days

_Excerpt of official transcript from Patient E.S.’s first one-on-one therapy session in the Pacific Northwest Addiction and Recovery Institute, Anger Counselling and Management Center._

**32:05 ES:** At what point do you start asking me about my childhood and all that shit?

 **32:40 DL:** Is that what you want to talk about?

 **33:02 ES:** Ain’t that what I’m supposed to talk about?

 **33:28 DL:** Therapy is what you make of it, Ethan. If you want to reflect on your childhood and how that relates to your current situation, I can help you with that. I’m not a Freudian by any means. The Center’s mission is to implement and maintain routines that will help you deal with your emotions in a constructive and proactive manner, not reactive. I’m just here to help you on your journey. The path you take is up to you.

 **34:41 ES:** Oh. Okay.

 **34:51 DL:** Is that something you’d like to -

 **34:53 ES:** No.

\---

Eliot is seven years old the first time he remembers being in a hospital. He follows a half step behind his father, his toy ambulance clutched in both little fists. Auntie Mel shoved it into his hand, telling him to remember that hospitals are where Jesus sends folks to be healed and Mama will be just fine in His name, as Daddy swept him out the door and into the truck. 

Eliot wants nothing more than to reach for his father’s hand now, but knows that if he does he’ll get a sharp tap to the knuckles and an admonishment that he’s too old for that. He’s scared, though he’s not allowed to admit it. Scared of the bright lights and sharp smells, the grim-looking nurses pushing old and injured people around in wheelchairs. Scared, even, of the smiling lady behind the desk who calls him “sweetie pie” and gives him a green lollipop. He shoves it into his pocket, thinking of the green poison dripping on the red apple the witch gives Snow White, putting her into a death-like sleep.

The lady tells Daddy to wait a moment while she gets the doctor. Daddy begins to pace, an expression on his face that Eliot has never seen before. It’s so alien that Eliot can’t even place it at first. When he does, his throat catches: Daddy is afraid.

A man in a white doctor’s coat comes out to talk to them. Eliot sits down right there on the cold hospital floor, puttering his ambulance back and forth. He knows better than to butt in on grown-ups talking, so he makes himself as small and out-of-the-way as possible. He doesn’t understand everything the doctor murmurs to Daddy, but he catches words like “collision” and “drunk” and “life support.” He hears Mama’s name several times.

“Eliot, come here,” Daddy says after a few minutes. “We’re gonna go see Mama now.”

“Is she gonna be okay?” Eliot asks, standing up and going obediently to his father’s side.

Daddy shares a look with the doctor, one of those Looks adults get when they don’t know how to tell a kid something. “We’re doing our best to help her, son,” the doctor says. “It might be a little scary to see her right now, but we’re gonna do all we can to make sure she gets better.”

Eliot doesn’t ask any more questions, just follows the doctor and Daddy through a doorway and down a couple of hallways to a room with a severe-looking door. The doctor opens the door and ushers them inside.

 _How silly_ , is Eliot’s first thought as he takes in the scene. _All that fuss an’ he got the wrong room. That ain’t Mama._

The woman on the bed, who is definitely Not Mama, is covered in wires and bandages. The wires lead to machines that beep and buzz and hiss. A plastic mask covers her mouth and nose. Part of the hair on her head has been shaved clean off to show a large gash that has been sewn shut. He thinks of Mama’s Singer sewing machine, which is normally tucked away in the corner until she needs to fix Daddy’s shirt or let out Eliot’s pants again. He thinks she coulda done a much neater job than whoever did up Not Mama’s head.

Daddy walks over to Not Mama and looks down at her. He looks sad and angry at the same time. “Where’s the sonuvabitch who did this to my wife?” he asks the doctor.

“County jail, I think. We examined him. Bruised ribs and a mild concussion. Nothing to keep him here for.”

Daddy’s hands grip the railing around Not Mama’s bed. “He’s gonna wish he’d fucking died if I ever get my hands on him.”

Eliot stares at Daddy, eyes wide. Daddy rarely cusses, and never once has Eliot heard the f-word from his mouth. That, more than anything, convinces Eliot that the stranger in the hospital bed might just be Mama after all.

“Take it easy, Mr. Spencer,” the doctor says evenly. “There’s no point in making threats. Let justice take its course.”

Daddy closes his eyes and nods. The doctor excuses himself, leaving them in private.

The room is silent for a while except for the hiss of the machines. Eliot creeps closer to Daddy and the bed. If it wasn’t for all the wires and such, she’d look like she was just sleeping. “When’s she gonna wake up, Daddy?”

Daddy looks down at him and does something he hasn’t done for well over a year now: he stoops to lift Eliot up into his arms. Eliot doesn’t protest, simply wraps his arms around Daddy’s shoulders and holds on tight. “I don’t know,” Daddy says, which is ridiculous because Daddy always knows. “She was hurt real bad, and she’s gotta rest now so her body can get well again.”

“Like when I had the flu last month?”

“Something like that.”

Eliot looks down on Mama, watching her impassive face. “Who’s gonna cook dinner?”

“I suppose we’ll have to, for the time bein’. I expect Auntie Mel will help out, too,” Daddy says.

“Do you think if you kiss her, she’ll wake up and be okay?”

Daddy sighs so deeply that his chest carries Eliot up and down. “This ain’t Sleepin’ Beauty, son.”

Eliot shakes his head. “No, she’s Snow White.” Thinking about the lollipop crushed in his pocket. But also her pale skin - normally much tanner, now a sickly white - stark against her dark brown hair. She doesn’t wear it short like Snow White, wears it normally so long it reaches her butt when braided. It’s short now, though, so it won’t tangle with the wires and tubes.

Daddy leans down and brushes a kiss against Mama’s forehead. Eliot holds his breath with anticipation, but Mama doesn’t stir. They watch her for several more minutes, waiting.

Eventually, Daddy’s shoulders slump. “C’mon,” he says gruffly, setting Eliot back on the floor. “I best get back to the store. I hate when Auntie Mel watches it. She always tries to rearrange everythin’.”

Eliot takes one last look back at Mama before following Daddy out the door.

\---

Mama holds on for eight days before Daddy finally admits that she ain’t ever comin’ back. The doctors show him all kinds of information and a couple of scans, pointing to bits of greyness that they say is her brain. It just looks like blobs to Eliot. They say that maybe a bigger facility with fancier, newer machines could tell them more, but every test they conduct points to the same conclusion: Mama ain’t inside her body anymore. Her soul has already passed on to Jesus, and maybe it’s time for her body to lie in rest.

The whole family gathers around Mama’s bed: Grammy June and Grandpa Adam, who are Mama’s parents, and Grammy Lee, Daddy’s mama; Auntie Mel and her husband Uncle Randy; Uncle Marion; Uncle Steve and Auntie Elizabeth. All the cousins have to wait out in the hallway because there isn’t enough room for them, except Cousin Seth who is still a baby and stays in Auntie Elizabeth’s arms.

They join hands around Mama, Eliot taking Daddy’s hand in his right and Grammy Lee’s in his left, as Auntie Mel leads them in a prayer for Mama to rest in peace and may she sit by the Lord’s side forevermore. By the time she’s finished, the women are all crying and even Uncle Marion is sniffling. Daddy squeezes Eliot’s hand, and Eliot leans into his hip.

At Daddy’s nod, a nurse who had been waiting patiently for the “Amen” now comes forward. She takes the plastic mask off of Mama’s face and unhooks some of the wires. The machine beeping to the rhythm of her heartbeat stays on, a steady and reassuring sound. For a minute or two, Eliot thinks that maybe Mama isn’t going to die after all. Maybe she’s still in there, fighting to stay alive, and the rhythmic _beep beep beep_ is proof of that.

But then the beeps slow down until they fall into one long line. Auntie Mel sobs and flees the room; Uncle Randy rushes out after her. Grammy June sways worryingly, and Uncle Steve has to hold onto her so she won’t fall down. Grandpa Adam strokes Mama’s slack face before walking out, eyes down to hide the tears glistening in the corners. One by one the others leave, until it’s just Eliot and Daddy standing by what used to be Mama.

Daddy lays a heavy hand on Eliot’s shoulder. “If you’re gonna cry, do it now,” he advises. Eliot looks up at him, shocked to find tears falling down his face. “Men don’t cry where other people can see them.”

Eliot blinks, willing the tears to come, but they won’t. He misses Mama, sure, but he’s been missing her for over a week. And that person on the bed that wears Mama’s face, he thinks he was right that she ain’t really Mama after all, and how can he feel sad that a person who is Not Mama doesn’t exist anymore? He’ll cry later, curled up in his bed for the night, stomach cramping around Auntie Mel’s homemade lasagna that doesn’t taste anything like Mama’s, wishing to hear Mama sing him one more lullaby. He’s cried like that every night for the past week, and he’ll cry like that again for many weeks to come. But here, now, by the bedside of a dead stranger, he can’t muster a single tear.

\---

Eliot is twelve years old and rail thin, and not just because of a recent growth spurt. Daddy and Grandpa call him scrawny; Uncle Randy says he’s wiry. Eliot doesn’t pay them much mind, but when the kids at school start in on his size, then all bets are off. He might be smaller than average, he might eat three helpings of dinner and never gain a pound, he might have been denied a spot on the wrestling team ‘cause he can’t make the weight requirements, but he ain’t no sissy - and if he has to put Jimmy Hallfax into a headlock to prove it, he damn well can and will.

For a while, after Mama’s death, the other kids avoided Eliot. Not because they thought their mamas would die if they associated with him, nothing like that, but because their teachers and principal and parents all warned them to be nice to him, on account of he was grieving. But Eliot didn’t want to be nice. He wanted to pick a fight with anyone who looked at him twice. He still does, now, but for different reasons.

The only person who never holds back around him is Aimee. She doesn’t give two shits if she offends anyone by calling Eliot a dummy when he costs their group first place in a trivia game the class is playing, nor does she care if anyone is scandalized the time Eliot is ignoring her calling his name so she resorts to shouting “Hey, Orphanboy!” halfway across the playground. Both incidents earn her a stern talking-to from the principal and half a pack of Oreos from Eliot as a thank you because he is so relieved that finally someone isn’t treating him like he will break.

So when he hears her call his name now, just after the final bell, he turns and waits for her to catch up.

“Are you comin’ to the ranch today?” she asks, a little breathless from pushing her way through the kids to reach him. “My daddy is trainin’ a new horse and he thinks you’ll like her. She’s got spirit.”

“Naw, I gotta go to the store,” Eliot says, disappointed. He would like nothing more than to go to Aimee’s ranch and spend the afternoon watching Mr. Martin tame a spirited horse. Maybe Mr. Martin would even let him try some of the techniques he’s been learning. “My dad wants me to help run the cash register for a while.”

“I’ll walk with you, then,” Aimee says.

“You’re gonna catch hell from your mama if you miss the bus again and she has to come pick you up from town,” Eliot warns her.

Aimee shrugs. “Let me borrow your bike. It won’t take half an hour for me to ride home from the store.”

They start walking down the street towards Spencer’s Hardware. It’s just over five blocks from the school - practically all the way across town, older folks joke - and maybe they can stop at the nickel-and-dime and pick up some candy along the way.

“What’ll you give me if I lend you my bike?” Eliot asks.

“I’ll let you win next time you try’n wrestle me,” she laughs. Eliot swallows and blushes because wrestling with Aimee is starting to feel different these days and she doesn’t realize _he’s_ been letting _her_ win so that she won’t get too close to some rather sensitive parts.

“Deal,” he says, tamping down on the blush and willing his body not to do anything else stupid.

At the nickel-and-dime, Aimee stops and ducks inside while Eliot waits because Mrs. Johnson won’t let more than one kid inside at a time. She comes out with a fistful of candy that she divvies up between them. Just as she finishes, they hear a shout from the alleyway halfway down the block: “There he is! _Get ‘im_.”

Eliot looks around sharply; it wouldn’t be the first time he’s the target of such a directive. But no, a group of five boys - mostly from Eliot and Aimee’s grade, a couple older - charge out of the alley and grab Cole Tanner, who had just passed by on his way home. Cole yelps, struggling to get the boys off him, to no avail.

Eliot dashes towards the alley without thinking, Aimee a half step behind him. By the time they round the corner, two of the boys have Cole pinned against the wall while another is dumping the contents of his backpack into a muddy puddle. The last two - one of whom is Jimmy Hallfax - are standing in front of Cole, cracking their knuckles ominously.

“I’mma teach you to look at me in the locker rooms, you little faggot,” Jimmy snarls, spitting on Cole’s face. Cole shrieks and tries to wriggle out of his captors’ grips.

“Hey,” Eliot snaps. “The fuck you think you’re doin’? Ain’t none of y’all heard of a fair fight?”

Jimmy shoves Cole, whose back is already pushed up against the wall. Cole gasps. Jimmy turns towards Eliot and Aimee, sizing them up. “This little shitpacker was eyeing me up in the showers today, Spencer.” He jabs a finger towards Cole, not bothering to look at where he’s pointing. “You think this faggot deserves a fair fight?”

Eliot crosses his arms. “Are you afraid a faggot could kick your ass?”

One of the morons holding Cole against the wall and the kid with the backpack both snigger. Jimmy gives them a stink eye. “What, he your boyfriend or somethin’, Spencer?”

“Hell no,” Eliot says, recoiling. “I just think it’s time you picked on someone your own size for a change, Hallfuck.”

Jimmy looks between Eliot and Aimee and Cole. “Only person I see ‘round here my size is Aimee,” he says. The other boys laugh.

Eliot snarls, but Aimee is unruffled. “Shut your ugly-ass mouth, Jimmy,” Aimee says, “or I’ll tell Beth you like her and see what she has to say about _that_. Prolly laugh you outta town.”

Jimmy turns bright red; it’s hardly a secret he likes the prettiest girl in school, but Jimmy Hallfax is hardly a stunning catch in the looks department. And Bethany Turner is not known for letting boys down easy. “You wouldn’t dare, you bitch,” Jimmy spits.

Eliot moves before he can even consider the consequences. He launches himself straight at Jimmy, catching him off guard enough that they both slam to the ground.

He is a flail of fists and feet and even teeth when Jimmy’s arm is somehow pressed against his mouth, nearly choking him. They roll on the ground, Jimmy’s goons too shocked to do anything but stare for a moment before they remember to help their friend, piling on. Aimee screams at them to get off him and then she too enters the fray, kicking and scratching at anyone she can reach. Eliot lashes out indiscriminately, landing several good punches and kicks to various stomachs, faces, and crotches before their combined efforts overpower him and he can only curl into himself and hold on until the whaling stops.

When it’s over, the five boys run off, Jimmy pausing at the mouth of the alley to shout a few more taunts before disappearing. Eliot slowly uncurls and takes stock. Cole is still pressed against the wall, looking terrified but unharmed. He had only watched open-mouthed as the others fought, wisely keeping himself out of it. Aimee’s pants are torn at the knees, she has a bruise forming on her right cheek, and her hair is a mess. She is struggling not to cry.

Eliot glances at his arms and sees they are covered with a myriad of scratches and developing bruises. Nothing feels sprained or broken, though his knuckles ache something fierce. He is certain his face is a mess. His nose hurts when he touches it and he prays it isn’t broken.

“You’re gonna have a nasty black eye,” Aimee tells him, still sniffling.

Eliot nods at her face. “You ain’t that far from one yourself. What kinda assholes hit a girl?”

“The same kind that think five against one is fair,” Aimee says darkly. She looks at Cole. “Are you okay?”

Cole nods slowly, eyeing them warily. “You didn’t gotta do that,” he says. “I didn’t ask you to get yourself beat up for me.”

Eliot rolls his eyes. “I didn’t do it for you, freak. He called Aimee a bitch. Ain’t no one gonna call Aimee a bitch in front of me.”

“Were you really lookin’ at Jimmy in the showers?” Aimee asks, nose wrinkling slightly.

“No! I ain’t stupid. He was just lookin’ for an excuse to pound on me,” Cole says. But Eliot thinks he sees something shifty in Cole’s eyes.

Cole is the kinda boy that adults call well-behaved, girls call sweet, and boys - well, the boys at school are pretty sure they know what’s up. The way he is terrible at sports, the way he has more girl friends than guy friends, the way he rarely goes anywhere there isn’t an adult in sight: it starts to add up. Cole’s been labelled queer - both in the “strange” sense and the “faggoty” sense - since third grade. Nobody ever really bothered with him before because hitting Cole was a lot like hitting a girl; sure, you could do it, but it made you a weak man to try.

Until now, apparently.

“Well, maybe he wouldn’t if you didn’t act like such a sissy all the time,” Eliot informs him. He stands up and brushes himself off. Cole edges away from him and goes to rescue his school supplies from the muddy puddle. Eliot leaves the alley without so much as a “see you later” and Aimee follows, though she does turn to wave to Cole.

By the time they reach the hardware store, their bruises have darkened and Eliot knows they’re going to catch hell. Sure enough, when they step through the door and find Daddy, Auntie Mel, and Uncle Randy chatting, the talk stops dead at the sight of them. Auntie Mel gasps and Daddy crosses his arms.

“The hell happened to y’all?”

Auntie Mel comes up to Aimee first, tsking over her cheek. “Someone hit ya, honey?”

“Buncha boys was ganging up on a kid.” Eliot knows better than to tell them the kid in question was Cole Tanner. Adults might regard Cole as well-behaved, but Daddy has strong opinions on sissies. “I made ‘em stop.”

“Five of ‘em,” Aimee adds, which ain’t really helpful. Eliot glares at her.

“C’mere. Lemme look at your nose,” Daddy says. His hands are cool and dry as he prods gently at Eliot’s face. Uncle Randy goes to wet down a couple of cleaning towels, passes one to Daddy and one to Auntie Mel.

“Best get some ice on those soon,” he says.

Daddy finishes up his investigations and regards his son with his hands on his hips. “Ain’t broken. But what were you thinkin’ taking on a whole gang of boys at once? Who were these kids, huh? Speak up.”

“I don’t know, sir,” Eliot says. 

“Yes, you do. There ain’t a kid in this goddamn town you don’t know the name of. Who was it?”

Eliot shrugs.

“Tell me,” Daddy barks. 

“No, sir.” They both know how this game is played. Daddy has to ask and threaten and scold, but Eliot better not give in because the only thing worse than getting into a fight is being a snitch who tattles on the other kids involved.

“C’mon, honey,” Auntie Mel says to Aimee. “Let me drive you home.” She loops an arm around Aimee’s shoulders.

“Eliot was gonna lend me his bike,” Aimee says.

Auntie Mel shakes her head. “Naw, it’ll be faster if I drive you. Plus I know your mama’s gonna be upset when she sees your face like that.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Sumner.”

“Ain’t no trouble.”

Once they leave, it’s just Eliot, Daddy, and Uncle Randy. Uncle Randy shakes his head at Daddy. “When you gonna teach this boy to fight?”

Daddy scoffs. “Ain’t no amount of training gonna help a boy who’s fool enough to take on five kids at once.”

Eliot, however, leans forward eagerly. “I wanna learn.”

“Stay outta this, son,” Daddy advises him. To Uncle Randy: “He don’t need to learn to fight. Fightin’s for ruffians and thugs.”

“You didn’t seem to think so when you went off to fight the VietCong.”

Daddy’s full attention is on Uncle Randy now, so Eliot slides back to where they can’t see him. Daddy never talks about his time in Vietnam, and Eliot is desperate for any morsel of information he might be able to pick up from this argument.

“I was an idiot back then, Randy. Never shoulda gone there.”

“Your boy’s headstrong,” Uncle Randy says. “Lord knows he gets that from you. And he don’t like seein’ an injustice if he thinks he can do somethin’ about it. Even if he actually can’t. He got that from his mama.”

Something heavy slams on the hardwood counter. “What’s your point, Randy?”

“If you don’t give him the knowledge he needs now, Eliot’s gonna get himself killed. You gonna lose your son ‘cause of pig-headedness? Either you teach him to fight or I’ll do it myself. Either way, the boy is gonna learn.”

Eliot crosses all his fingers together, waiting for Daddy’s answer. It’s a long while coming, and Eliot’s fingers are beginning to cramp when Daddy finally says, “The boy’s in enough trouble as it is, Randy. What’s gonna happen if he learns to do real damage?”

“Let me do it, then,” Uncle Randy presses. “I’ll teach him right, you know I will. Eliot ain’t a bully, and you have my word if he turns into one, he’ll have to deal with me.”

Eliot holds his breath, praying for Daddy to come around. Eliot won’t do anything to disappoint Uncle Randy, especially if he is so willing to take on Eliot’s education himself. There’s a long silence, and then - against all odds - he says, “Fine.”

Eliot pulls in a great gasping breath and whoops loudly, forgetting that he was trying to be quiet. Daddy rounds on him.

“But that don’t mean you’re outta trouble. No TV for a week.” His thunderous voice lowers to a grumble. “Takin’ on five boys at once, you got a fool head on you, son, I don’t care what anyone says.”

Eliot doesn’t care. Next time Jimmy Hallfax tries to mess with Eliot, he is gonna have a rude surprise.

\---

( _Eliot is thirteen and a half the first time he kisses Aimee. They are hanging out at her daddy’s ranch, mucking out stalls, and she’s teasing him about something, throwing some hay into his hair. He shakes his head like a dog, but not all of it comes out. She reaches to pull a piece out, and he leans in and presses his lips to hers. He’s sure he’s red as a tomato and she can’t stop giggling and it’s awkward as hell, but when they break apart she takes his hand and suddenly the awkwardness doesn’t matter._ )

\---

Eliot is sixteen when he first gets the notion in his head to join the army. 

Looking back, he can’t say for sure where it first came from. He has buddies, knows kids at school whose older siblings have signed up and shipped out; sees the advertisements on TV; has had the old Uncle Sam “We Want YOU” posters ingrained into his brain since as early as he can remember. The Army, Navy, and Air Force send representatives to the high school to talk to juniors and seniors about all the exciting opportunities a person can have with them: see the world, fight for liberty, college tuition. They have something that can appeal to anyone.

The first time he acknowledges it out loud, turns it from a half-formed idea into a set plan, is to Aimee because of course it is. They’ve been going steady for four months now, over two years after that first kiss. There has been a lot more kissing since then, and more...fun stuff. 

Making out isn’t all they do, though. They also talk. A lot of Eliot’s buddies, especially the ones on the football team, complain about how much their girls like to talk. “All they wanna do is talk about gossip and clothes,” they say. Or, “Why won’t she put her mouth to a better use?” Eliot doesn’t mind, though. Aimee pays attention, is smart as a whip. She’s often in trouble at school for talking back to the teachers when she knows she’s in the right and they’re in the wrong. Sitting in his truck at the top of the butte (“Head Hill,” as the kids call it), he likes hearing her talk about the things she’s interested in, watching her eyes light up and how animated she gets. And then when she’s done with that, they turn to making out, his hand slipping down her jeans or up her shirt, and she’ll return the favor. Or if it’s turning dark and they’re surrounded in shadows, she might even let her mouth go lower and demonstrate how the butte got its nickname.

It isn’t that Eliot doesn’t contribute to these conversations. He does. He talks about how his dad wants him to take over the hardware store and how that idea makes him feel itchy in ways he can’t describe. He talks about what he learned to make in Home Ec (he makes sure not to talk too much about Mrs. Fallon, but he’s pretty sure Aimee knows why he signed up in the first place). He talks about the upcoming football game or the most recent one, going over plays and tactics and how Jimmy is the world’s worst running back - like seriously, couldn’t they have picked anyone else? Aimee knows almost everything about him, knows his family inside and out, has been there for him through his most difficult moments. So in the end, although Eliot is perfectly happy to tell her about his day or what he’s thinking about when she asks, he knows he says more in his body and silences than he does in his actual words.

They’re on the butte, stretched out together in the bed of Eliot’s truck, speakers pumping out the country western station. Aimee is lying half on top of Eliot, head pillowed on his chest. He’s relaxed under her, one arm under his head, the other wrapped around her shoulders to keep her warm. They’ve just finished a makeout session, ending with some heavy petting that has left Eliot boneless and blissful. The stars are starting to come out, and Eliot knows he needs to get Aimee home soon before her parents get suspicious, but for now he is content to lie with her and listen to the music.

The current song finishes, leading into a commercial break. Cheap oil changes, local fast food, tax preparation services - nothing of interest. Just small town stuff. The same tired commercials for the same tired stores he’s lived with his entire life. He wants to hear, see, something new, something fresh. Something completely different from this backwater boredom that’s been leeching the life out of him for more than sixteen years.

“I wanna get outta here,” Eliot says.

Aimee traces her finger around Eliot’s heart. “Just a little while more. I don’t wanna go home yet.”

“No, I don’t mean _here_ ,” he says, gesturing around them at the trees and the other cars in other hiding spots, headlights off, occupants trying to be quiet. “I mean, I wanna go somewhere new.”

“Right now? It’s gettin’ late.”

Eliot half-shrugs, one of his shoulders pinned by Aimee’s head. She’s not getting it, which is unusual. Normally she can read him like an open book. “I mean, like when we graduate. I don’t wanna stay here after that.”

Aimee is silent for a long moment. Eliot starts to fidget. “Your daddy ain’t gonna like that,” she says softly.

She’s right, he knows. Dad is fully expecting Eliot to start working full-time in the store once he’s out of school. He’s been working there every summer for the last three years. That’s how he managed to pay off his truck. “I don’t care what he likes or doesn’t. I’m sick of this town and the people in it.”

She raises her head to look at him. “All of ‘em?”

Eliot rolls his eyes and leans up to kiss her. “Not all of ‘em, no. Not you, sweetheart, nor your dad.” Nor Uncle Randy, for that matter. But everyone else? He couldn’t get away from them fast enough, far as he was concerned.

“Where you gonna go, then?” Aimee asks.

“I dunno,” he admits. “Where you wanna go?”

She lays her head back down again, a comforting weight on his chest. “I never really thought about leavin’. Or if I did go somewhere, it’d just be to visit. Like the Grand Canyon, or somethin’.”

“Ain’t you gonna go to college?” Eliot asks. They never talked about it, but he has been assuming she would go. She’s smart enough for sure.

But she shakes her head against his chest. “Daddy can’t afford it, plus there’s no reason to. College isn’t gonna teach me anythin’ about workin’ a ranch. Why? You thinkin’ about college?”

“No,” Eliot says. “I was thinkin’ about the Army.”

He hasn’t been, actually. It just pops into his head. But as soon as he says it, his whole body warms to it. _The Army_.

“The Army?” Aimee repeats, a little nonplussed. “What are you gonna do in the Army?”

A silly question, especially for someone as smart as Aimee. “Fight,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Protect America. Protect _you_.” He kisses the top of her head.

Her hand makes a little fist in his shirt right above his heart. “And then what?”

“And then I’mma come home and marry my girl.”

Aimee’s head pops up so fast Eliot hears her neck crack. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

This time when she kisses him, it’s a promise. He pulls her close against him, holding her tight. He never wants to let her go.

\---

( _A year later, he is still dead set on the Army and still dead set on marrying Aimee when he gets back, and he solidifies this promise with a ring. She cries when he gives it to her and kisses him again and again. That night they don’t stop at using just their hands or mouths, and Eliot is glad for the condom he bought ages ago and slipped into his wallet on the off-chance he would ever be able to use it. Now he gets to, and it’s the most amazing night of his life._ )

\---

Eliot is eighteen and walking across the auditorium stage to shake hands with his principal and receive his diploma. He stands tall and proud, smiles for Auntie Mel’s camera. He goes to stand with the rest of his classmates, waits for the last person to walk across the stage, and then it’s official. They throw their caps into the air and Aimee comes running to him across the room and jumps into his arms.

The whole family gathers at the Spencer home that night, all of his aunties and uncles and cousins, Grammy Lee and Grandpa Adam (Grammy June too frail to leave the house much these days but she sends her best wishes), plus Aimee and her family, too. They toast the new graduates and teasingly ask when they’re going to finally tie the knot. “Not until my contract is up, at least,” Eliot tells them, and there is a lot of laughter like he told some big joke, only he doesn’t understand the punchline. He chalks it up to the keg Uncle Marion bought for the occasion.

Eliot accepts a cup of beer from Uncle Marion and sips it gingerly throughout the night. Everyone else is well on their way to getting drunk, but Eliot is too excited to even think about overdoing it. Dad doesn’t mind him drinking as long as he doesn’t get behind the wheel afterwards; the one time he did, his father slammed him against the wall and shouted at him for half an hour about how a drunk driver killed Mama and he dared to disrespect her memory by pulling that shit. It was more the memory of Mama laying in the hospital bed hooked up to dozens of wires than his aching back that makes him think twice about driving after he’s had more than a couple of beers.

The seniors had their party a couple nights ago anyway, where he did get drunk enough that Aimee drove him home, so he wouldn’t mind taking it slow tonight even if his stomach wasn’t full of butterflies about tomorrow. His bag is packed and waiting for him at the foot of his bed, ready to take off late tomorrow morning.

The party gradually winds down, Aimee and her family the first to leave. Eliot takes Aimee aside before they go. “You’ll come see me before you head out?” she asks him, eyes glistening.

“Of course,” he promises. “Basic’ll be over before you know it, and I’ll be back to visit.”

“Before they ship you off to God knows where,” she says.

“I’ll come back.”

“You better.”

He holds up her hand, kisses the ring he put on it. “When I promise something, I see it through.”

“I know you do,” she says, and finally smiles. He kisses her, long and insistent. He wants to memorize the taste and feel of her, to carry with him while he’s away.

She leaves, and then Auntie Mel comes over to give him a hug. “Uncle Randy and I are gonna take off, sweetie,” she tells him. “Congrats again. We’ll see you later.”

He huffs a laugh, confused. “That’s it?”

She looks at him, shakes her head slightly. “What’s it?”

“Auntie, you ain’t gonna see me for over ten weeks and all you can say is ‘we’ll see you later?’” Eliot asks.

Auntie Mel cocks her head at him. “Ten weeks? Where you goin’ for ten weeks, Eliot?”

“Basic Training,” he says, truly bewildered now. He’s been talking about nothing else for ages. How could she have forgotten?

“Bas - Basic Training?” she repeats. “Randy! Get over here. Eliot, tell your uncle what you just told me.”

He stares at both of them. “I’m leaving for Basic Training tomorrow. I got my contract and everything.”

Auntie Mel looks at her husband, who blinks rapidly. “But - but your daddy said you was talkin’ about maybe someday you’d go. He said he talked you into stayin’ and helpin’ out at the store and then maybe in a year or so -”

“A _year_ ?” Eliot’s voice goes uncomfortably high-pitched. He clears his throat and tries again. “What - _no_. I’m leaving tomorrow. What the - why would he say that?”

Auntie Mel sighs. “I don’t know, sweetie. Wishful thinking, maybe. Or maybe he thought he’d convinced you. I’ll go talk to him.”

Uncle Randy grabs her arm before she can. “No, Melanie. This is between Eliot and Marvin.”

“But-”

“You’ve done all you can for him,” Uncle Randy says, and Eliot feels a rush of gratitude towards his aunt and uncle. They’ve been like parents to him, sometimes more so than his own father. Uncle Randy holds out his hand for Eliot to shake. “You’re gonna knock ‘em dead, son. I hope you know how proud you’ve always made us.”

Eliot swallows down a flood of emotions. “Thank you, sir.”

Uncle Randy pulls him in for a tight hug. They stay like that for several long seconds before Randy pats him on the back and lets go. “Love you.”

Those are words that are rarely said between men in their family. Eliot takes them into his heart and holds them close. “Love you, too,” he says. Turns to Auntie Mel. “Thank you for everything.”

She grabs him and holds him. He’s only an inch taller, yet she feels so small in his arms. But strong. Auntie Mel has always been incredibly strong. “You best come back,” she says into his hair, sniffling. “I’ll make you a pecan pie when you do.”

“I will.”

They leave. Eliot feels a piece of his heart go with them.

It’s nearly midnight before the rest of the family disperses, finally leaving Eliot alone with his father. Dad - no, Marvin - smiles proudly at his son, unaware of how the anger is simmering just under Eliot’s skin, ready to boil over at the slightest provocation. “Well, m’boy, you did it. You graduated high school. You’re officially smarter’n your old man.”

Eliot glares at him. Marvin’s smile falters. “Why did you lie to everyone?” Eliot demands.

Marvin stiffens. “You callin’ me a liar, boy?”

“I ain’t a boy no more,” Eliot snaps. “You told everyone I changed my mind about the Army.”

Marvin rolls his eyes. “That. We agreed you’re gonna wait a year before enlistin’.” He starts to gather empty Solo cups.

Eliot grabs his father’s arm, forces him to stop. Marvin sneers down at the hand holding onto him. “Let go of me, b- Eliot.”

But Eliot is stronger than he looks. Years of learning to fight under Uncle Randy’s tutelage has turned his wiry frame into hidden muscle. “I never agreed to that. I got my papers. I’m leaving for Basic tomorrow.”

“No.”

“ _Yes_.”

Marvin wrenches his arm out of Eliot’s grip. “I said no, and that’s final.”

“You can’t tell me what to do anymore. I been a man for three months now, I don’t gotta -”

“You’re under my roof, you _do_ gotta,” Marvin snaps.

“I won’t _be_ under your roof tomorrow,” Eliot shouts. How is he not seeing that? “I’m not gonna sit here and just waste my life away in this town -”

“You callin’ my life a waste?” Marvin’s eyes flash dangerously. “I made a life for myself, for _you_. I did my duty. I raised you right, all on my own after your mama -”

“You wasn’t on your own, you had your brother and sister to help,” Eliot interrupts. “Auntie Mel raised me just as much as you.”

“Don’t you interrupt me again, boy, don’t you dare. I’m talkin’ about _responsibility_ here. You are my responsibility and I raised you and provided for you and put a roof over your head. My shop did that for you. I thought I raised you to be a man and to understand that a man’s gotta -”

“Don’t you go tellin’ me what a man’s gotta do,” Eliot says.

“I told you not to interrupt me again!”

“I don’t care!” Eliot shouts. “All my life you been tellin’ me ‘a man’s gotta this’ an’ ‘a man’s gotta that.’ What about a man’s gotta protect people who can’t protect themselves? What about a man’s gotta fight for what’s right?”

“What is right, huh, boy?” Marvin asks. “What is right? Is it right to go over to the Middle East and tell them Arabs what to do? Just like we did with the gooks in Vietnam, huh? Is it right for us to go and get our kids killed because we wanna be bosses of the whole goddamn world?”

“People are dyin’ and if we can stop it -”

“People are dyin’ right here, Eliot,” Marvin says. “People are dyin’ every goddamn day right here in America. Son, we live in a good country, don’t get me wrong. I’m proud as hell of us. But we gotta look out for ourselves number one. ‘Stead of goin’ over to other countries and killin’ off our boys for them. And the ones that come back, what do they get? Huh? They get spit on and vilified. They go through hell over there and they go through hell again when they come back.”

“It ain’t like that anymore,” Eliot protests.

“It is,” Marvin says. “It is, you take my word for it. The Army is gonna chew you up and spit you out, and leave you to die wherever you land. And ain’t no one here gonna lift a finger to help you, neither. All you really got in this life is your own wits and your family. That’s me, boy, whether you like it or not. And Aimee. She deserves for you to do right by her.”

“I will,” Eliot says. “When I come back.”

“You ain’t leavin’.”

Eliot shakes his head. “I am, too. Tomorrow, with or without your blessin’.”

Marvin crosses his arms. “You leavin’ tomorrow, you might as well leave tonight. Find somewhere else to spend your last night in town. It won’t be under my roof. And don’t you bother comin’ back, neither.”

They square off for a long minute. Neither backs down. Eliot’s heart pounds in his ears as he waits for his father to relent, to admit he was wrong. After eighteen years of stubborn pride and mulishness, Eliot doesn’t know why he expects tonight to be any different. Yet still, he hopes.

Finally, Eliot moves; he turns on his heel and storms down the hall to his room, grabs his duffel, and leaves without another word.

\---

T-plus-2 days

_Excerpt of official transcript from Patient E.S.’s first one-on-one therapy session in the Pacific Northwest Addiction and Recovery Institute, Anger Counselling and Management Center._

**49:08 DL:** Our time is just about up, Ethan. You haven’t really said much for the last five minutes. Is there something in particular on your mind?

 **50:32 ES:** No.

 **50:36 DL:** We’ll start tomorrow’s session setting some goals for your one-on-one therapy. I want you to think about what you want to accomplish here. Not at the Center in general, but right here with me. I want you to come prepared with ideas and contributions. Do you think you can do that?

 **51:42 ES:** Okay.

 **51:58 DL:** Are you sure you don’t have anything else to add?

 **52:01 ES:** I ain’t got nothing left to say.

**[End transcript]**


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: a white person impersonating a person of color (canon-compliant), certain common racist bullshit

T-plus-3 days

_ Excerpt of official transcript from Patient E.S.’s second one-on-one therapy session in the Pacific Northwest Addiction and Recovery Institute, Anger Counselling and Management Center. _

**06:42 DL:** -want us to spend some time today talking about goals and goal setting.

**07:01 ES:** Yeah, you mentioned that at the end of our last session. I - I tried thinkin’ about what I want from all this, but I guess it’s really self-explanatory, ain’t it? I don’t want to fly into a rage when someone makes me mad.

**07:53 DL:** Okay, that is a good start. And the Center can definitely help you towards that. But I’m talking more about SMART goals.

**08:23 ES:** What, like readin’ more?

**08:42 DL [chuckles]:** No, no. SMART is an acronym. It stands for Specific, Measurable, Attainable, Realistic, Time-based. A lot of the time we make goals that are very broad and don’t give us a clear understanding of how to go about it. That’s why a lot of New Year's resolutions fail. “I don’t want to fly into a rage when someone makes me mad” is a very worthy resolution, but  _ how _ will you get there? And how can the Center help you with that?

**10:05 ES:** I guess that’s where I get a little lost. I’m - I’m not sure. I been this way for so long, I don’t….I don’t really know how to be anything else.

**10:32 DL:** When you say “this way,” can you tell me what you mean by that? What way are you?

**10:40 [Silence]**

**11:25 ES:** Angry.

\---

“Talk to me, Hardison,” Nate said, rolling into Hardison’s workspace without so much as a ‘Hi, how are ya?’ thank you very much. After four and a half years, Hardison should be used to it by now, but really, would it kill the man to actually ask how his day was going? How many hours he was up last night putting together the necessary credentials for this plan to  _ work? _

So Hardison just rolled his eyes, pushed some documents aside so Nate could have a spot to sit next to him, and pulled up a couple different tabs: in one, the security feed in the PNW Blah Blah Whatever Rehab Center (did they  _ have _ to have such a ridiculously long name?), in the other, Sophie’s character’s profile. “Meet Dr. Regina Mehta. Grew up in New Delhi, moved to London when she was ten, studied undergrad psychology at Oxford before coming to the U.S. to get her Ph.D. at Harvard. Her doctorate thesis was on crisis management and behavioral disorders. She recently moved to Portland and is looking for a position at the Whatchamacallit Institute, which is very lucky ‘cause - uh oh! - they just had one of their counsellor positions temporarily open up.”

Nate lifted an eyebrow. “Where did you send the counsellor?”

“Oh, nowhere too far,” Hardison said with a smirk. “He just happened to get the research opportunity of a lifetime up in Alaska. Very rare opportunity, had to act fast on it.”

“And what happens when he gets there and finds out there’s no research opportunity?” Nate asked.

Hardison grinned. “Oh, would you look at this little mix-up? Dr. Speigelman thinks the ship he is boarding is a controlled environment specifically designed for exactly his research needs, but it is in fact a delightful two-week whale watching excursion for singles. They’ll be out on the open sea with no Wi-Fi, no cell towers, only the ship’s crew has access to communication with the outside world.”

“Two weeks, huh?” Nate said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “We had originally planned for this to be up to five.”

Seriously? The man had no respect for the work Hardison did on a daily basis. “You try getting this guy out of the way for five weeks,” he huffed. “Look, there’s a four-day gap between him arriving in Alaska and boarding the boat. Okay? Plus another couple of days to arrange travel home once he’s back on dry land? That’s almost three weeks,  _ your majesty. _ If we can’t break this Huber guy in three weeks, then, my man, we do not  _ deserve _ to call ourselves professionals.”

Nate smiled and clapped Hardison on his shoulder. “Good job, Hardison. You’re right. Three weeks should be plenty. What kind of access will this give Sophie?”

“Puh-lenty,” Hardison said. “The Whosit Recreation Whatever -”

“The Pacific Northwest Addiction and Recovery Institute, Anger Counselling and Management Center,” Nate interjected.

“The Angry Man Place,” Hardison said because seriously that was just too many words to bother with, “has five full-time psychologists for twenty patients. That’s their max cap. Every patient has mandatory one-on-one therapy sessions six days a week for the first three weeks they’re there. Then it goes to every other day. Then the last week, just two sessions. Huber’s still in the every-day-but-Sunday phase, so Sophie will have plenty of access to him. Plus Speigelman ran one of the group therapy sessions, you know, where everyone sits around in a circle and talks about their feelings. Eliot and Huber are together in that one.”

“Is Eliot going to be one of Sophie’s patients?” Nate asked.

Hardison shook his head. “No, he’s got a Doctor Lehmann. He’s in one-on-one with her right now.”

“Hm. Okay.” Nate frowned. “That means Sophie won’t really have an excuse to talk to him in private if they need to communicate.”

“We’ve always got Parker as the wife,” Hardison reminded him.

“True, true,” Nate said. “Ah, it’s probably for the best anyway. Sophie got way too into the therapy role when we did the Hurley job.”

Hardison couldn’t resist a little needling. “You mean that time we put your drunk ass in rehab and Sophie read you the riot act?”

“Ha ha. And also ha,” Nate said.

Hardison shrugged. “Yeah, but this ain’t like that time. It’s not like we’re sending Eliot into anger management for real.” He looked sidelong at Nate. “Right?”

“No, no, of course not. Nah, why would we?” Nate said, completely unconvincing. The sort of unconvincing that was so clear and deliberate that Hardison was certain he was meant to know it was unconvincing.

Was this about...the Knife Incident? Hardison squinted at Nate, unsure if he should press the matter. The only way Nate would know about the Incident would be if Eliot told him. Granted, Eliot and Nate were fairly close as far as coworkers went, but not necessarily as friends went. After all, who did Eliot rope into fishing trips? Who did Eliot stick around to play video games with after a job? Who did Eliot invite to poker night with ex-Army buds? Not Nate - at least, not as often as he did with Hardison.

Where was he going with this?

“Nah, no reason to,” Hardison agreed, perhaps a moment later than would have been an appropriate response. “Eliot’s always got a tight rein on his -” Hardison wiggled his hand - “emotions.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

There was a bit of an awkward pause. Hardison was just getting to the point of breaking it with a desperate redirection when Nate leaned over and whispered, perhaps a little belatedly, “Uh, he can’t hear us, can he?”

Hardison chuckled and shook his head. “He takes his earbud out when he’s in individual therapy. He should be out in twenty minutes or so.”

Nate looked at Hardison sharply. “He takes out his earbud?”

Hardison rolled his eyes. “C’mon, Nate. Huber’s not mobbed up or got accomplices or paid Dr. Lehmann to take Eliot out or anything. It’s therapy. If he don’t want me in his head while talking to a shrink, fine.”

Nate looked thoughtful. “Eliot in therapy. That’s gotta be...interesting.”

Hardison shrugged. “It’s not really Eliot, though. It’s just a character.”

“A character with a pretty similar background to Eliot’s.”

Nate was fishing again, and it made Hardison a little antsy. “Only ‘cause I know he hates grifting and I  _ know _ he hates a long con, so I made his character as easy to remember as possible.”

“Of course, of course.”

The thing was - the  _ thing was _ \- Eliot really did have tight control over his emotions. And maybe that was part of the problem. The Incident didn’t happen because Eliot reacted out of anger. And Hardison was almost ninety percent certain the resulting fallout wasn’t out of anger, either. It was just that he and Parker couldn’t  _ talk _ to Eliot to make sure. Because Eliot had been avoiding both of them ever since. And in the times when avoidance was impossible, he snapped and lashed out. But even then, Hardison was pretty sure it wasn’t  _ anger _ that was motivating Eliot’s mood swings.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t get the guy to stop snapping long enough to prove his theory correct. (And, okay, it was  _ possible _ , as Parker had pointed out to him recently, once Eliot started snapping, Hardison had a difficult time not snapping back.)

Hardison sighed. Maybe, if nothing else, this job would give them enough time apart for Eliot to come to his senses and just  _ talk _ to them.

“Oh, look,” Hardison said, clicking on the security feed to make it take up more of the screen. “Here comes Sophie.” And if there was relief in his voice at moving on to a new topic, Nate at least had the grace not to mention it.

\---

“Thank you so much for signing on on such short notice,” the director gushed at Sophie, who smiled.

“It is I who must thank you, Director,” Sophie replied, an Indian tinge to her accent. There had been some debate back at the brewpub if it was ethical for her to be impersonating a person of colour on a case that was already so racially charged. Sophie had pointed out that having a person of colour in a position of authority would weigh on Huber more than a white woman would.

Although Sophie had won out in the end, she could tell this case was weighing heavily on Hardison. She would have a chat with him later, make sure he was alright. Nate had been a little dismissive when Sophie mentioned it on her way out the door, claiming that Hardison was just having a tiff with Eliot, and he would be all right by the end of the case. And while, yes, that was also true, she didn’t think that was entirely the problem here. Perhaps the two issues were intertwining and playing off each other?

It was a bit of a muddled mess.

“No need to thank us, Dr. Mehta,” the director said. “You’re really helping us out in a pinch. Plus your qualifications are astounding! What even brought you to Portland?”

“I was looking for a change of scenery,” Sophie said. “This is a beautiful area.”

The director ushered Sophie through a doorway into a nicely appointed office that still had a lot of Dr. Speigelman’s personal effects in it. Sophie had brought a few of “Dr. Mehta’s” own decorations and knick knacks along, just to personalise the place a little bit. They were all deliberately chosen to play up her supposed Indian ancestry, really drive home the point that Dr. Mehta was not from around here.

“This will be your office while Dr. Speigelman is away. Feel free to rearrange it a bit, make it your own. This is where your patients will meet you for one-on-one sessions, and you can do all of your admin on his computer. We’ll get you login access and an email set up by this afternoon. I’ll let you get settled in. There’s a group therapy session in about twenty minutes that Dr. Speigelman usually runs. I would like to introduce you to the group and get you started, but you’ll mostly be running it. It’s a combination of therapy and restoration circle, which I see you have extensive practice in.”

“I do indeed,” Sophie said. It wasn’t  _ that _ far off the truth, really. What was theatre but one massive therapy exercise? “I’m excited to get started. Who all will be in the group?”

The director pulled a sheet of paper from the stack she cradled in her arms. “Here’s the list. We have three different groups, but we try to switch around which members are in which group every few days so that they’re not always with the same people all the time. Yours is a group of seven. Some of them are almost at the end of their time with us, some of them are just beginning.” She flashed Sophie a radiant smile. “Welcome, Dr. Mehta. I’ll meet you in the large gatherings room in fifteen minutes."

The director left, and Sophie began putting up the items she had brought. There was the sound of a door opening a little way down the hall and a familiar voice saying, “Thanks, Dr. Lehmann. See you later.” A moment later, Eliot passed by her open door.

She knew he saw her, both because he always had a habit of checking out an open door from the corner of his eye (never knew who could be lurking on the other side), and also because his step hitched for the slightest of moments. But then he kept walking and was gone.

Sophie glanced down at her group therapy roster. She already knew Huber would be on it, but she wanted to see - yes. Eliot’s alias was also listed.

“Hardison,” Sophie murmured just loud enough for the earbud to catch it, “can you make sure Eliot and Huber stay in the same group therapy?”

“Already done and done,” Hardison’s voice said, smug and assured. “I thought at first maybe they put these lists together on paper, but nope. Turns out they use a computer programme with an algorithm designed to make sure the patients are mixed together as evenly as possible. It was easy to hack and tweak just ever so slightly so that no matter where Huber ends up, Ethan Scott will be in the same group.”

“Perfect.”

She glanced at the clock; she still had a few minutes before she was supposed to meet the director in the large gatherings room. She booted up Dr. Speigelman’s computer and placed Hardison’s little contraption on the side. The device would allow him to “gank” (as he so eloquently put it) all the files from the computer, cloning them onto his own laptop back in the brewpub. From there, he’d be able to sort through the information and look for anything that could help them break Adrian Huber.

“Do you need me to be logged in for this to work? I don’t have a login yet.”

“Nah,” Hardison said. “I’ll get what I can for now, and the rest can wait until you’re properly set up.”

“Hey, man, what’s up?” Eliot’s voice came through, soft and growly on the comms. He must have put his back in.

There was the briefest of pauses before Hardison said, surprise evident in his voice, “Uh, not much, you know, just -”

“Yeah, I just came out of my time with Dr. Lehmann,” Eliot said over Hardison’s bumbling attempt at a reply. “Hey, do you know who the chick in Speigelman’s office is? Ain’t he your therapist?”

“Oh,” Hardison said. “Oh, you were just - oh, yeah. Huber.”

The comm just barely picked up Huber’s reply about Speigelman being on some sort of leave of absence.

Sophie stood up. It was time for her to report to the large gatherings room and make her debut.

\---

Eliot followed Huber into the group therapy session. Two of the other participants were already in there, whispering to each other. They nodded at Eliot and Huber.

“Did you guys see the new doc?” one of them asked.

Huber sat down in one of the chairs; Eliot sat next to him, letting his legs sprawl. “Yeah,” he said. Ethan Scott was a man of few words, the better to draw Huber out of his shell.

“She’s smoking hot,” the other guy said. “I saw her coming in.”

Eliot glanced at Huber, who looked intrigued. “I dunno,” Eliot said. “She didn’t look that pretty to me.” Which, okay, was a blatant lie, but Eliot had set himself up as someone for Huber to trust over the last couple of days. If Eliot said Sophie wasn’t pretty, it would make Huber’s brain seek out the things he didn’t like about her appearance and amplify them.

The other group members filed in. They were hardly cookie-cutter in appearance, but they all checked the same boxes: White, late 20s to mid 40s, middle to upper class, white collar, educated. There was one Latino guy in the whole program, but he wasn’t part of Eliot’s group session. And the thing was, if Tasya hadn’t pointed out that Huber received preferential treatment because of his skin color, Eliot probably wouldn’t have noticed the racial makeup of the patients. Most of these guys were here under court order, only three self-admitted. Half of those sent here from court were sent by Pratt. A significant proportion, sure, but it still showed that he wasn’t the only one who thought these men deserved a chance at redemption while men of color rotted in jail cells on lesser charges.

Sophie and Director Signard walked in just after the last member arrived. Eliot watched Huber out of the corner of his eye take in Sophie’s appearance: she was dressed in a nice little skirt suit, blouse not too revealing, skirt slit a modest length. Her hair had extensions to make it longer and was pulled back in a high ponytail. She wore bigger, danglier jewelry than usual, like she had the last time she’d pretended to be Indian. It looked like she might have spent some time in a tanning booth, too, or maybe she had a really good bronzer. She wasn’t wearing a bindi or henna, nothing too obviously exaggerated, but she hit enough details that Americans would associate with India that she looked the part without overdoing it.

“That’s what you call ‘not that pretty?’” Huber whispered to Eliot.

Eliot’s eyes swept over Sophie from head to toe. His face twitched, giving off “disgusted” microexpressions as he took in certain details - namely the nose ring and the myriad bangles. “Just ain’t my type, I guess,” he replied.

Huber looked back at Sophie, who was smiling and talking to another patient. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I think I see what you mean.”

“Hello, all,” the director said, stepping forward and getting everyone’s attention. “I know you all are wondering what’s going on with Doctor Speigelman. He’s going on a brief leave of absence, but Doctor Mehta here has agreed to step in and work his caseload while he’s away. I know this has affected some of your one-on-one sessions, but don’t worry. Those will resume tomorrow. In the meantime, I’m going to help Doctor Mehta get settled. She’s going to run our group session today while I sit in and assist if necessary. I hope you’ll join me in giving her a big welcome.”

The patients applauded, Eliot a half second behind the cue.

“Thank you, Director,” Sophie said graciously. Eliot squinted when he heard the accent, acting like it was taking a moment for him to connect her words with their meaning. Beside him, Huber shifted like he was uncomfortable. “I am so excited to work with you all. Now, I’d like to get to know you a little bit better. I would like to go around the circle, and when you tell me your name, also tell me something you think of when I say the word ‘warm.’ Don’t think too hard about it, just give me the first thing that pops into your head.”

“When you say what?” Eliot asked.

“Warm.”

“Worm?”

“Warm. Warm. Like the opposite of cold,” Sophie said.

“Oh, okay. Warm.”

Sophie smiled at him. “Perhaps we’ll start with you and we’ll go this way -” she indicated counter-clockwise, so that Huber would be last - “around the circle. Okay?”

“Uh, yeah. Okay. My name is Ethan and I think of, uh, sunshine.”

“Very good, Ethan. Next?”

They went around the circle, each member participating, including Sophie and the director. Sophie made encouraging comments about everyone’s answers, until she got to Huber. When he said “Freshly baked cookies,” she simply raised her eyebrows, hummed, and jotted something down in her notebook.

“Okay, next round is going to be rapid-fire. Just say the first thing that comes to your mind when I say ‘scratchy.’ Go.” She pointed at Eliot.

Even though it was a fast round, it had the desired effect. By the time they got around to Huber, he looked decidedly uncomfortable, like thinking about all those scratchy things they named made him feel a bit itchy himself. Again, Sophie wrote down something in her notebook after he spoke. Eliot sneaked a glance out of the corner of his eye and saw Huber frown.

“All right, last round. This time, I will give you sixty seconds to really think about your answer. What is your biggest pet peeve?” She glanced at the clock. “Sixty seconds to think and then we will start.”

After a minute for consideration, Sophie gestured to Eliot. “Ethan?”

“I guess… I guess people who take things that don’t belong to them?” Eliot said.

“Hmm,” Sophie said. “Can you be a little more specific? People who take things that don’t belong to them is a pretty broad subject. I mean, would it bother you if I leaned over and took Jared’s pen without asking him?”

Eliot stared at her for a moment, like he couldn’t quite parse what she was saying. Then he let it “click.” Scratching his chin, he said, “I s’pose not.” He thought about the character he was meant to be playing and what would make Ethan Scott tick. His mind flitted to the fake incident that led him here, the encounter in the grocery store. He carefully did not think about Hardison’s bruised and bloodied face, falsified though it was. “Uh, I guess, then, I’d have to say thieves. Thieves are my biggest pet peeve. Like, they set out to intentionally take things from other people just because they want ‘em. And that pisses me off.”

Sophie was too professional to let any emotion show, but Eliot knew she was probably laughing on the inside. “Ah, I see what you mean. Yes, I can understand how that would frustrate you.”

When her turn came around, Sophie said, “My biggest pet peeve is people who are not honest about how they are feeling.” The group chuckled. Sophie smiled. “I know, I know, what a strange pet peeve for a psychologist. But it’s true. Whether it’s because the person is pretending they don’t feel a certain way or if it’s because they are covering their true emotions with other, more ‘acceptable’ emotions, it used to be very frustrating to me. Now, I help people access their true feelings and find healthy ways to deal with the more unpleasant ones.”

A few people nodded. Eliot squinted skeptically. He was about to say something - not exactly an attack, but just some little question that would undermine Sophie’s authority - when Huber spoke up instead. “Is it really a pet peeve, though, if it doesn’t bother you anymore?”

Good, Huber was following Eliot’s lead a lot faster than he’d thought. Sophie, however, was unruffled. “Ah, just because I have found a way to deal with it doesn’t mean it doesn’t bother me,” she said. “Shall we continue? Jared, you’re next.”

They kept going until Huber was the only one left. “My biggest pet peeve is people who don’t want to lift a finger to earn anything. They just want everything handed to them.”

“Yes,” Sophie said as the other patients made various noises of agreement. “I can see how that would be upsetting. Now, everyone, think about that thing that gets you so frustrated and mad. Think about how you feel in that moment. What happens? What do you think? What do you feel? How does your body react? Tell me about it. We don’t have to keep going in the circle, anyone feel free to chip in.”

“I feel, like...disconnected?” Jared said. “Like my head is hollow and I’m not really in there anymore.”

“For me,” another guy piped up, “my heart starts racing and I feel like there’s pressure building up that I can only get rid of by screaming at the nearest person.”

The conversation continued as Sophie let the patients take more of a lead role. She interjected occasionally to bring attention to a certain topic or to ask guiding questions. Eliot stayed quiet, slumped in his seat. He’d been building groundwork for two days now and was content to let someone else take the reins for a little bit. Besides, Sophie was doing a masterful job of working in subtle little things to annoy Huber, like gesturing in ways that made her bangles clink (therefore drawing his attention to them) or running her fingers through her hair. Little things that forced him to notice her “otherness,” as if the accent by itself wasn’t a constant enough reminder.

“Adrian,” Sophie said after a several minutes of group discussion during which neither Huber nor Eliot said much, “do you have anything to contribute to our discussion?”

Huber’s eyes darkened slightly at being called out in front of everyone. “Not really. I was just listening to what everyone else had to say.”

The guy on Huber’s other side leaned over to clap his hand on Huber’s shoulder. “It’s hard, at first,” the guy, Tommy, said. He had been in the program for three weeks now, so he had more experience than Huber or Eliot. “We’re taught we can’t say what’s really on our minds and that to be a real man, we have to keep our emotions inside. But this is a safe place, Adrian. You, too, Ethan. I know you’re both new and this might seem a little touchy-feely at first. But once you get to open up, you will make tons of progress.”

Eliot flashed him a tight smile. “Thanks. That helps.” He hoped his voice didn’t betray the amount of sarcasm threatening to leak out of his soul right now.

Sophie looked at Adrian expectantly. A couple of the other guys gave little “Come on, Adrian” and “You got this, man” bits of encouragement.

Huber cleared his throat. “Well, I guess… you know, I guess… No, I know - I remember the first time I hit someone and realizing it gave me, like, power over them. You know? It was some kid at school, and he was being just really obnoxious. Making fun of me about something. I don’t think I made the conscious decision to punch him, but next thing I knew he was on the ground and one of the teachers was holding me back. After that, he didn’t make fun of me anymore.”

The other patients nodded and murmured that they knew what he meant or that they had similar experiences. Then slowly, one by one, their eyes turned towards Eliot.

Eliot stared back. “What?”

Huber nudged him. “C’mon, man. I shared. Your turn.”

Eliot’s lips twitched in irritation. So far he had managed to make it through these group therapy sessions without contributing much. Dr. Speigelman hadn’t been overly pushy in making people participate. But Sophie was doing exactly what she was supposed to be doing, and it only made sense that Huber would try to bring Eliot down to the level Sophie was pushing him towards. “Uh, well, I don’t know what I’m supposed to talk about.”

“Anything. What do you want to talk about?” Sophie asked.

“The latest Blazers game,” Eliot said, much to everyone’s amusement. Eliot couldn’t suppress a tiny smile at their laughter. “It was a travesty.”

Sophie smiled her indulgent ‘I see what you did there and I will allow it but not for much longer’ smile. “Were you a bit of a class clown, Ethan?”

Eliot’s smile faded. “No, not really,” he said. Was that right? Or was Ethan supposed to be the sort of child who hid behind a funny facade so the other kids wouldn’t know how much turmoil was on the inside? He didn’t think that fit the character. Hardison hadn’t given him much to work with, background-wise, so he went with the old standby: keep your lies simple and easy to remember. “My dad woulda tanned my hide if I acted like a fool in class.”

“Your dad was strict, then?” Sophie pressed.

“Whose wasn’t?” Jared asked. The others nodded agreement. “The number of times I got a belt or a switch to my ass.... I can’t even count.”

“You learn...” one of the other patients started, then paused. The others waited for him to continue. “You learn early on that violence gets people to behave how you want them to. I never used to believe that spanking could really harm a child. I used to think some kids needed it. Like violence was the same as discipline. I spanked my kids, even though my wife didn’t like it. If I could go back and do it all over again, I wouldn’t raise a hand against them.”

Jared shook his head. “I think I disagree. Spanking isn’t violence. It’s not the same as cold-clocking a guy because he pisses you off.”

“What’s the difference, to a kid?” Tommy asked. “Especially if the parent uses a tool like a switch or a belt or a spoon or whatever. My mom only ever used her hand so that she would have to feel it just as much as us kids, but, I mean, it’s still hurting someone you love. And over what? A broken vase or doing something stupid without thinking about the consequences?”

“Or actin’ out because there’s somethin’ else hurting you but you never been taught how to talk about that shit,” Eliot said, surprising himself. He hadn’t meant to say anything, but he couldn’t help thinking of the times right after his mother died when he would lash out at anyone and everyone. His dad used to growl, “What were you thinkin’, boy?” and Eliot simply didn’t know. He just knew he was in a lot of pain and he wanted others to be in pain, too.

“You gotta be strong enough to break the cycle,” Tommy agreed. “Hitting a child just leads to them hitting their children, and it’ll go on forever if we don’t stop it. Hitting a child is just never okay.” Eliot nodded and some of the other guys voiced their agreement as well. Jared still didn’t look convinced; neither did Huber.

“I agree, Tommy,” Sophie said softly. “That is a very good point. And you bring up something very important, too, Ethan. Why don’t we teach the boys in our society how to recognize and deal with their emotions? Why do we force our men to tamp down on their emotions?” She glanced at her watch. “Unfortunately, we will have to examine that question tomorrow. It’s something to think about. Good work, everyone. Thank you all for such great contributions. I will be meeting with some of you tomorrow and I look forward to our one-on-one sessions. If any of you need anything, feel free to stop by my office and chat."

The group dispersed. Some had a scheduled activity, others were on dinner duty. Eliot was one of the ones on dinner duty, which he was quite happy about. He wasn’t sure if Hardison had anything to do with Ethan Scott’s placement on the communal jobs roster, but it seemed a little suspicious that his first week would be spent doing something he loved instead of cleaning the toilets or another hideous task.

Huber followed Eliot into the kitchen. He had a bit of free activity time scheduled before dinner. Eliot took it as a good sign that Huber wanted to spend that time with him. The guys in the program were a pretty close-knit group, even the ones who were still relatively new. Eliot understood how easy it was to form bonds with people you were around constantly, with no or limited contact to the outside world. When you breathed, lived, ate, shat, showered, and slept together, when you had a connection that outsiders didn’t quite get, sometimes it could feel like they were the only people in the entire world who you could rely on.

And even within that group, there naturally formed subsections of even closer buddies. Huber and Eliot might have gravitated towards each other regardless of Eliot’s ulterior motives, simply because they were the newbies. It made Eliot’s job a little bit easier, since he didn’t have to actively seek out Huber’s company past those first few hours.

“That was different,” Huber commented as Eliot and the other men on kitchen duty began laying out the necessary ingredients to make dinner for twenty patients and another dozen or so staff members. “She’s, uh...interesting.”

Eliot snorted. “You can say that again,” he grumbled. “Couldn’t understand halfa what she was sayin’.”

“Yeah,” Huber agreed. “That accent, shit.”

“Yup. An’ I dunno if I trust someone who comes from fuckin’ Mumbai University to know a damn thing about real psychology, you know?” Eliot said.

“I saw her degree when I passed by Speigelman’s office earlier. She graduated from Harvard,” Huber said.

Eliot rolled his eyes. “That’s even worse.”

“How so?”

“Degrees from those liberal-ass hoity toity colleges don’t mean shit. You think you gotta be good to get into Harvard? Fuck no. Only if you’re white. Everyone else?” He glanced around like he suddenly realized there were other people in the room. “They got quotas to fill, man. They’ll take anyone.”

Huber nodded. “Yeah. I had a buddy who was top of his class, super smart. Applied to all the Ivy Leagues. Didn’t get into any of them. ‘Cause of people like that.”

Eliot nodded. “Yeah, that’s right. But we can’t say shit like that, even though it’s true.”

“It’s not ‘politically correct,’” Huber said, with air quotes and all.

“Fuckin’ a, man.”

\---

T-plus-3 days

_ Excerpt of official transcript from Patient E.S.’s second one-on-one therapy session in the Pacific Northwest Addiction and Recovery Institute, Anger Counselling and Management Center. _

**29:02 DL:** Angry isn’t all you are, Ethan. You are more than that. What are some emotions you feel that aren’t anger?

**29:48 ES [rustling sounds]:** Uh, I guess… happy? And proud, sometimes. 

**30:25 DL:** Is that it?

**30:30 ES:** No?

**30:55 DL:** Go ahead and just lay it all out there. What emotions do you experience in a typical day? Not just the good ones.

**31:08 ES:** I guess, like, happy and proud and sad sometimes and... tired. Sometimes I’m really tired. Frustrated. Annoyed. Funny, I guess. Is that an emotion? Like when I’m pickin’ on my - my best friend. Watchin’ him get riled up is hilarious. I think that’s...yeah, that’s it.

**32:14 DL:** See? It’s not all anger.

**32:31 ES:** You don’t get it.

**32:38 DL:** Get what?

**32:42 ES:** Even when I feel all those other things, I’m still angry. Underneath. When I’m happy, when I’m frustrated, whatever. I still….the anger never leaves.

**33:09 DL:** That’s why we call it “anger management” not “anger disappearance.” As we go forward, you’ll learn some skills that will help you focus on the other emotions you’re feeling. When you’re happy, focus on the happy. When you’re sad, focus on the sad. If you feel that anger lurking behind the other emotions, acknowledge it but don’t let it overrule whatever else you’re feeling. Soon, anger will learn it doesn’t have jurisdiction in those moments. There are appropriate times to feel angry; we just need to get your anger to understand its place. And then we can work on teaching anger what actions are acceptable to take and which ones are not. Does that sound good?

**34:28 ES:** Yeah. Yeah, that sounds...good. Really good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not condone the times Sophie impersonated a person of color and I apologize for using that tactic in this fic; unfortunately, I believe if this had been a real case, Sophie would have done exactly this.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: a few homophobic themes, objectification of women, rape mention
> 
> I bumped up the rating because this chapter contains some non-explicit sexual situations. I think they are easily skimmed if that's not your thing.
> 
> Lastly, I played fast and loose with what Basic Training actually looks like. Inspiration for the Night of Death comes from Admiral McRaven’s 2014 UT Austin Commencement Speech. It can be found on Youtube if you’re dying to know what Navy SEAL training is like and what sugar cookies have to do with it.

T-Plus-4 Days

_ Excerpt of official transcript from Patient E.S.’s thirdone-on-one therapy session in the Pacific Northwest Addiction and Recovery Institute, Anger Counselling and Management Center. _

**14:23 DL:** Describe a time for me when you were happy.

**14:45 ES [sharp inhalation].**

\---

Aimee drops Eliot off at the bus depot bright and early. He stayed the night at her house, setting up on her couch after explaining to Mr. and Mrs. Martin what happened with his dad. He barely slept a wink, between still being mad at his father and being excited about starting Basic. And then Aimee slipped downstairs and silently made love to him, tears coursing down her cheeks. It was beautiful, but even post-orgasmic bliss wasn’t enough to quiet his mind.

They share one last, lingering kiss. Aimee is crying again, and Eliot presses his lips to each drop, wicking them away. “I’ll be back before you know it,” he murmurs, holding her close. “I have to go.”

She releases him and wraps her arms around her stomach. He looks back only once before joining the other recruits lining up to report for their bus.

The bus ride reminds Eliot of travelling for an away game, sweaty boys pretending they’re men, laughing about stupid shit, already so full of camaraderie and spirit that they begin pranking each other right away. The guy next to Eliot is a tiny wisp of a thing, looks like he thinks chess is a sport. Eliot reckons he’ll wash out in less than a week. Still, Eliot laughs when the guy leans forward to flick the back of the neck of the dude sitting in front of him, who is being loud and obnoxious.

The guy sitting directly behind Eliot isn’t the only silent one on the bus, but he is the only one who catches Eliot’s eye. Eliot half-turns in his seat so that he’s leaning against the window, one leg tucked under him to push him up just far enough that he can see over the back of the seat. “Hey.”

The guy smiles at him. “Hey.”

Eliot sticks out his hand. “Eliot Spencer.”

The guy takes it. “Wesley Keats.”

“Where ya from?”

“About 90 miles west of here,” Wesley says. “You?”

“Just in town.”

Wesley nods. It’s difficult to tell since he’s seated, but Eliot suspects by the way he’s struggling to stretch his legs, Wesley is several inches taller than he is. Not that that’s saying much. His dark hair is already in a strict crew cut that pays stark contrast to his soft, almost feminine facial features. His electric green eyes are friendly.

“What job did you sign up for?” Wesley asks.

“Combat,” Eliot says. As if there was anything he could possibly consider. He had stared at the recruiter who asked him what he wanted to specialize in, then said, “I want to fight.” There was no other choice for him. Who went into the Army to be a scientist?

“Me, too,” Wesley says. “My folks were kinda surprised. I think they want me to do something a little more on the background side of things, but I’ve been keeping track of what’s going on in the Middle East. It’s crazy. I want to go fix things over there.”

Eliot imagines what his father would have to say about that, then quickly banishes the thought from his head. Thinking about his dad brings the white-hot anger and hurt back. Some of the anger must show on his face, though, because Wesley looks away, uncertain.

“I know what you mean,” Eliot says, but Wesley just shrugs and doesn’t say anything else.

Eliot turns back around in his seat only to find that his seatmate has let out a silent but deadly fart that makes his eyes water. “Ugh, gross.” Eliot gives him a shove. “Get outta here, go sit somewhere else.”

The dude laughs and refuses to budge, even goes so far as to waft more of the smell towards Eliot. Now other guys are smelling it, too, and their objections rise loudly around them.

It isn’t a long ride to the Basic Training camp, and as they draw closer, the excitement begins to mount. Even Wesley sits forward in anticipation, leaning up over Eliot’s seat to try to see the road ahead. HIs fingers dance nervously, tapping on Eliot’s headrest. Eliot doesn’t push him away.

In spite of the excited thrum, everyone becomes strangely still as they drive onto the base. Eliot can just barely see three men standing ramrod straight just ahead. The bus pulls to a stop alongside them, and one of the men steps forward, already yelling as the bus doors open.

“Let’s get a move on, ladies!” the man shouts as he steps up onto the bus to supervise their disembarkment. “Turn out, turn out. Let’s  _ go _ . Don’t you dare bring your makeup bag with you, boy, you leave your shit right where it is. TURN OUT, LET’S GO. I DON’T WANNA TELL YOU AGAIN. MOVE!”

They pile haphazardly out of the bus, nearly falling all over themselves and each other in their haste to obey. Once out on the asphalt, they attempt to form a line. The man follows them out and looks them over, moving down the line with a critical eye. He gets to the end and glares at them.

“Listen up, ladies! I am Sergeant First Class Hernandez. Me and Sergeant Eichmann and Sergeant Griswald will be your drill instructors for the next ten weeks. When we give you an order, you say ‘Yes, Drill Sergeant!’ Do you understand?”

“YES, DRILL SERGEANT.”

“When we say ‘run,” you run. When we say ‘stop,’ you stop, and not a moment before. When we say ‘jump,’ don’t you dare ask us how high - you just do it. Do you hear me?”

“YES, DRILL SERGEANT.” Eliot pushes as much power into his voice as he can, eyes forward, back straight. Hernandez stalks down the line again, this time sneering out insults as he goes.

“Are you here for boot camp or fat camp, Chubby? What the hell are you wearing, Maggot? Take that damn hat off.” When he comes to Eliot, Hernandez barely even pauses as he calls out, “Where’d the rest of you go, boy? My granny’s taller’n you. Someone get this girlie some high heels.”

Eliot grits his teeth but says nothing. Wesley’s quiet composure earns him no comments, which Eliot finds completely unfair.

At the end of the line, Hernandez turns on his heel and stares them down. “WIND SPRINTS, LADIES. TO THE FLAG POLE AND BACK,  _ GO _ .”

They race to the flag, some faltering right from the start. Eliot is among the first to reach the pole and turn around to dash back. “AGAIN,” Hernandez shouts as he and the other sprinters come back to where they started. They about-face and run back again. “AGAIN.”

“AGAIN.”

“AGAIN.”

“AGAIN.”

Eliot has been running all-out, trying to impress the sergeants, but now he regrets not pacing himself. But he can’t slow down. 

“AGAIN.”

He can see some of the others flagging, but it only pushes him harder, further. Wesley, who was wise enough to run at a steady pace, is starting to gain on him now. His long legs push him further with fewer strides; he looks like he could do this all day long. 

“AGAIN.”

Eliot’s whole world narrows down to listening to the drill instructor’s voice and staying ahead of Wesley. That’s all that matters. The thrill of competition worms its way down Eliot’s veins, renewing his energy. He grins.

“AGAIN.”

He doesn’t see some of the other guys start to lose it. He doesn’t see his former seatmate stagger off to the side and throw up.

“STOP.”

Eliot skids to a halt so suddenly that Wesley nearly crashes into him. They, along with the other recruits, pant for breath. Eliot bends over, hands on his knees; beside him, Wesley clutches at his side.

Before anyone’s breathing has managed to return to normal, however, Griswald steps forward. “PUSH UPS.”

They drop wherever they stand. “STOP,” Griswald screams before anyone can do more than lower down. “WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS FORMATION? ARE WE IN YOUR HIGH SCHOOL GYM CLASS? ARE WE ON THE FOOTBALL FIELD TRYING TO IMPRESS THE CHEERLEADERS? LINE UP AND DO IT PROPERLY. NOW. PUSH UPS.”

They scramble to reform their original line, get into the correct position, but then no one moves. Are they supposed to go at their own pace, or together? If together, who is supposed to let them know when to start? Griswald isn’t saying anything, nor are the other instructors. They’re just waiting. For what?

Eliot shifts his stance and calls out, “One!”

They all lower down together and lift back up.

“TWO!”

On “Three,” more of the recruits join in the yelling. By “Four,” they’re all in unison. They count off to twenty before Griswald yells for them to stop.

Now it’s Eichmann’s turn to step forward. He points to the bus, which has been standing open and empty this whole time. “Get your gear, ladies,” he says. He doesn’t shout; he doesn’t have to. “We’re going to your bunks. There you will meet the rest of your platoons. These will be your family for the next ten weeks. You will be in each other’s pockets. You will eat together, sleep together, train together, shit together, shower together. If you have a problem, you deal with it. If one person in your platoon fails a task, you all fail. You don’t succeed until everyone in your platoon succeeds. Let’s move out.”

They move out, trying their best to form a straight line. Eichmann leads them to the barracks, begins calling out names. Eliot’s putrid seatmate gets called, along with several others. Eichmann leads them to another barrack, then another. The group slowly dwindles. At the fourth stop, Eichmann calls out for “Keats, Wesley” followed soon by “Spencer, Eliot.”

They and a half dozen other recruits enter the barrack, greeted by the men who are already settled in. Eliot throws his duffle onto the nearest available top bunk, climbs up. The bed shakes a little, causing Eliot to peer down at his new bunkie. He is a little surprised to see it’s Wesley.

Wesley shoots him a wan smile. “Better the devil you know, I guess.”

Eliot lifts his eyebrows. “Devil, huh?”

“Absolutely evil.”

“Dick,” Eliot retorts, laughing.

Wesley returns his laughter for the first time, something in him loosening up. His shoulders relax, his eyes close.

The moment of peace doesn’t last long, however. Hernandez comes into the barrack to look them over. “Ladies, enjoy your last day of pampering,” he barks. “Lights out at 2100. That doesn’t mean dick around and gossip until you fall asleep. This ain’t sleepaway camp! You are up at 0500 to begin drills. DO YOU HEAR ME?”

“YES, DRILL SERGEANT.”

Hernandez cracks his knuckles. “Lunch in the mess in twenty. After that, you come back here and get your shit stored away. Your bed is neat at all times, there ain’t a sock outta place. If I see a single tighty whitey out of your footlocker, all o’ ya will be punished. You’re only as strong as your weakest link.” He turns and stalks out.

The others buzz around, already starting to put their stuff away. Eliot jumps off his bunk, whacks an unsuspecting Wesley on the back of the head as payback for earlier. Wesley just rolls his eyes.

“This is gonna be fun,” he mutters, quietly enough that Eliot is the only one who catches it. He knows Wesley is being sarcastic, but he feels like all of the weeks of anticipation are about to pay off. Yes, it will be difficult, but he knows he’s up to the task. He won’t wash out. He’ll make it through or die trying.

\---

They hit the ground running. It doesn’t seem too bad at first. Eliot is used to hard physical drills, thanks to a particularly sadistic football coach during senior year. He can mostly tune out the insults and taunts from the drill instructors. The only time he nearly loses his cool is when Hernandez calls him a sissy; if it hadn’t been for Wesley’s hand shooting out to grab his arm, he might have done something stupid. He shoves the anger down instead, lip twitching, but otherwise in control.

Wesley seems nearly unflappable. Whatever Eliot may have thought about him at the beginning - that he was unhappy to be there and would wash out immediately - he soon learns otherwise. Wesley is fast, deceptively strong, and quick to follow orders. He listens well, which is something that Eliot still struggles with. He appears content to be second best, never taking the lead in any training exercise. Eliot suspects that he might be holding back for some unknown reason.

At first it seems that Wesley is always sticking to Eliot, but eventually Eliot finds himself seeking out Wesley’s company as well. The more they hang out, the more Wesley starts opening up. They talk between drills, during meals, during what little free time they have. Eliot learns that he also played football, although he was a runningback; he has four siblings, all younger than him; his father died of cancer just a couple years ago; and he always wanted to be a zoologist when he was growing up, until he realized he wouldn’t be able to pay for college.

Eliot in turn tells him about learning all about horses, about the drunk driver who killed his mom, about Auntie Mel and Uncle Randy. Never about his father. If Wesley notices the omission, he says nothing. Eliot likes talking about Aimee most of all, about all the plans for their future. Wesley - Wes, as Eliot begins to call him, while Wes starts referring to him as Spence - whistles when Eliot shows him a picture of her astride a magnificent Appaloosa.

“Shit, Spence, she’s gorgeous,” he says. “What’s she doing with you?”

Eliot laughs and puts the picture away. They’re in their barracks right before lights out, in those precious few moments when no one is yelling at them. They’re exhausted, ready to collapse, but there’s always enough strength to look at pretty girls.

“Man, did you get a load of those chicks this afternoon?” another guy, Dewedlin, asks. They had been out doing laps in the searing sun when another platoon had marched past, and there had been several women mixed in. Those who hadn’t noticed right away were quickly nudged by those who had. Dewedlin asking now if they have seen the girls is pretty much rhetorical. “What I wouldn’t do to be on  _ their _ platoon. Have them raise my flag, if you know what I mean.”

The other guys laugh. “I’d like them to handle my cannonballs, if you know what I mean,” another guy pipes up.

“They can dismantle my weapon anytime, fellas.”

“Man, I just wanna fuck them senseless,” Comstock finishes off, causing the rest of the guys to howl with laughter.

Eliot chuckles a little, torn between two impulses; the humor is crass in a way he doesn’t like, but he’s been feeling pretty hard up lately. Fucking Aimee senseless sounds pretty ideal, although he wouldn’t use such a dirty word for the likes of her. Still, the girls in that platoon had been  _ hot _ in their uniforms. He knows, in his head, that he’s supposed to think of the women in the Army as soldiers just like the men, but his genitals have a vastly different opinion.

Then he catches the look on Wes’ face.

Wes has been, up until now, a pretty even-keel kinda guy. Ribbing and teasing is pretty common among the men, and sometimes Eliot’s hot-headedness gets the better of him, but not Wes. He always laughs or shrugs it off. Now, though, his face has darkened and he looks like he might smash Comstock’s face in. None of the other guys have noticed yet, fortunately, as they are still getting ready for lights out and are making worse and worse jokes. Eliot grabs Wes’ arm, digs his nails in to get his buddy’s attention. “You’ve got about five minutes to get yourself under control,” he hisses in Wes’ ear. “Get your shit together.”

Wes jolts out of whatever trance had been holding him in place. “I gotta piss,” he mumbles as he pushes his way towards the barracks door.

Comstock laughs. “More like last chance to jack off, am I right, guys?”

Wes is already out the door and doesn’t hear, so Eliot rolls his eyes at Comstock on his behalf. “Choke on my dick, Comstock,” he growls as he follows Wes out the door and towards the head.

He catches up with Wes halfway to the toilets. “You okay, man?”

Wes glances at him, sighs. He seems less ready to punch someone now. “Yeah, I just… fuck, Comstock really pissed me off.”

“I could tell.” The line for the urinals is long, since this is the last chance to piss before lights out, but it’s dwindling rapidly. “They were just jokin’ around.”

“I know. I mean, I do get it. I do. We’re all suffering from blue balls pretty hard,” Wes says. “Some guys aren’t really quiet when they jerk off.”

Eliot nods; he’s heard it, too. He always does his best to ignore it. It’s like when you’re parked next to another couple on Head Hill and you can hear the faint moans and slaps of flesh. You know what’s happening, but you pretend it doesn’t exist.

“And yeah, some of those girls are really hot, right? We don’t have any in our platoon. I’m, uh, kinda glad about that, actually. ‘Cause I heard a rumor…” Wes trails off.

They’re almost to the urinals now, and only two minutes to lights out. “What rumor?” Eliot asks.

“A g- a woman in another company was raped,” Wes says quietly. “I don’t know her name, but I know there’s been this huge drama around it. I was talking to someone from that company the other day. He says the girl’s lying, that all the men are sticking with the guy she’s blaming.”

“Shit,” Eliot hisses. He hasn’t heard about this, and he’s a little surprised Wes has known about it but not said anything. Wes steps up to the next available urinal and a moment later Eliot does the same. They pee quickly and head back out. “I mean, but Comstock was just kidding. They all were.”

“I know,” Wes admits. “It just… it got under my skin, is all. I kept thinking, what if it was one of my sisters they were talking about like that? I don’t know. I just - it ain’t right.”

Eliot nods, fighting down a flash of guilt. What would Auntie Mel say if she had seen him laughing at Comstock and the others? Hell, what would Aimee say? She’d kick his ass on principle. And he’d known better, too.

They just have a few seconds left before they’re supposed to be in bed, but Wes grabs Eliot’s arm before he can open the barracks door. “Spence, don’t - don’t get all righteous about this.”

Eliot stares at him. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. If  _ I _ wanted to punch Comstock, then I know you probably will too, the next time he makes a stupid joke like that. And he will. Don’t go landing yourself in trouble for brawling, okay? It’s one of the reasons I didn’t say anything.” He glances away into the darkness. “You always want to take on every problem and make it right, but this one… it’s big. It’s fuckin’ huge. It’ll swallow you whole and spit you back out if I don’t say something now and you let it consume you. So don’t get righteous about it.”

Before Eliot can demand what else is he supposed to do, a booming voice makes them both jump. “WHAT ARE YOU ASSWIPES DOING OUT OF BED AFTER LIGHTS OUT?”

Hernandez has come out of nowhere, bearing down on them. Eliot and Wes grab for the door at the same time, fumble it, finally get it open, and trip over each other in their haste to get back to their bunk. Unfortunately, it’s not enough. Hernandez follows them in, and the entire platoon groans because they know what’s coming.

“Listen up, ladies,” Hernandez barks. “Thanks to your buddies here, y’all will be cleaning out the head tomorrow during your free time. Be sure to let them know how much you appreciate their contribution to the team effort.”

More grumbling. Eliot thumps his head back against his pillow. It’s hardly their first punishment, nor will it be their last. Almost everyone in the platoon has been responsible for earning them some sort of infraction at one time or another. In a couple of days, when someone else has fucked up enough to earn a new punishment, everyone will have forgotten about this one. 

Most recruits are asleep almost as soon as they settle in. Normally Eliot is right there with them. Tonight, though, he lies awake, troubled. He hears sighs and shifts below that mean Wes is also restless. When he eventually drifts to sleep, his dreams are far from pleasant.

\---

Training gets more intense with each day. Eliot steps up to every new challenge, pushing himself hard, priding himself on never backing down. They’re out in the relentless sun for hours on end, until the sweat drips turn to trickles, to rivers. They have to carry equipment through miles of obstacle courses, twenty, fifty, a hundred pounds of gear and ammunition. They work through drenching rain, cracking thunder. They run, crawl, jump, swing, climb, pull, push to the point of exhaustion and beyond. One time Hernandez makes them skip - just because he can. To prove that you do what the Army tells you to do or else.

A new rumor begins to circulate: Hell Week is fast approaching, with the promise of one special night in particular, which the instructors cheerfully term the Night of Death. Hell Week, they know a bit about (little to no sleep, increased exercises, day trips or night trips to hellacious terrain where they have to prove themselves over and over again), but what exactly Night of Death is, what it will entail, no one seems to know. There is plenty of speculation. Comstock insists that they are going to be shot somewhere nonvital so that they will know what a bullet ripping through their flesh feels like. Eliot is not sure if Comstock is actually stupid enough to believe that or if he’s just trying to scare the others, but either way no one believes him.

Other rumors are more sensible. Dewedlin hears from another platoon that they’ll have to run ten miles down the road in full gear and spend the night guarding an abandoned storage facility while officers “shoot” them and try to outflank them. Someone else says they will be flown out to the Cascades, dropped at the top of a mountain, and find their way back down again.

The reality of it doesn’t sound so bad, on the surface, as what their imaginations cooked up. They are taken to the desert, about fifty miles out from camp. They’re in full tactical gear. It’s Wednesday of Hell Week, so they’re already tired. And they’re told: to complete the mission they must stand there from sundown to sunrise. That’s all. Stand there in all your gear in the middle of the desert and wait for the sun to come up.

It sounds easy in theory, but the reality of it is torture. You can’t sit down. You can’t shift around too much. If you do, an instructor is in your face, yelling at you to give up now, sissy-boy, you won’t never be a real soldier. The desert night air is cold, and fierce winds regularly kick up. They hear odd animal noises under the sounds of their instructors screaming at them to quit. Nobody has been allowed to bring a watch, so they have no way to know how much time has passed. Eliot stands, his legs spread a little apart, back ramrod straight, determined. He won’t give in. He can take anything they throw at him.

After a few hours, a new incentive comes along. Hernandez walks down the line of soldiers and tells them if five people opt to quit, then they win. They can all go back to base. If five people volunteer to wash out right here, right now, then it’ll all be over.

A buzz arises from the recruits. Their numbers are already less than half from when Basic Training started. What’s five more quitters, when so many have already left?

Eliot glances to his left, where Wes stands. Wes’ head is down, like maybe he’s actually considering it. He feels Eliot’s eyes on him, looks up. Their eyes meet. Eliot slowly shakes his head.  _ Don’t you do it _ .

Wes breaks eye contact, looks down again. Then back up at Hernandez. “Wes,” Eliot hisses, forgetting himself for a moment and nearly breaking his stance to approach him.

“Spence,” Wes hisses back.

“You ain’t a quitter.”

“YOU GOT SOMETHING TO SAY, SPENCER?” Hernandez rounds on him.

Eliot’s lip twitches as he bites back the retort he wants to throw in Hernandez’s face. Instead, he raises his voice so the other recruits can hear him. “We ain’t quitters,  _ sir _ .”

“WE AIN’T QUITTERS, SIR,” the other recruits shout like it’s a mantra.

“You think you shitstains are good enough for the Army?” Eichmann demands. “Look at Comstock over here, trembling like a butterfly. You wanna sit down, Comstock? Do you, Peterson? Lee? You can sit down any time you wanna, boys. Spencer?”

“No, sir!” Eliot grits out.

“NO, SIR,” the others chorus.

Eichmann moves over to Wes. “Gonna quit, Keats? Huh? You think you ever had what it takes to become a soldier? You ain’t shit, son. You’re delicate and weak.”

“No, sir,” Wes says.

“You talking back to me, boy?”

“No, sir.”

“It sure sounds like you are.”

“No, sir.”

“I am,” Eliot says before he can stop himself.

Eichman rounds on him. “What was that?” he asks, deadly quiet. Everyone around them seems to hold their collective breath.

“I am, sir. Talkin’ back to you,” Eliot says. He’s in the shit now, he might as well roll around a bit. He raises his voice a little, praying the others will take their cue like they did just a minute ago. “I’m talkin’ back to you, sir!”

“I’M TALKING BACK TO YOU, SIR,” the others spit out.

“TWO DAYS OF CIRCUS TRAINING FOR ALL OF YOU,” Hernandez screams. Circus training is what they call the punishment for disobedience where recruits have to do two extra hours of calisthenics. Having to add that on top of Hell Week training is going to be murder.

Eliot doesn’t care. “Thank you, sir!” he cries out.

“THANK YOU, SIR.”

“THREE DAYS.”

“THANK YOU, SIR.”

“FOUR DAYS.”

“THANK YOU, SIR.”

Before Hernandez can add another day on, Wes speaks up unexpectedly. Well, not speaks up. He starts singing.

Eliot doesn’t know where it came from, this impulse. Doesn’t know why Wes chooses  _ Walk the Line _ by Johnny Cash. But he does, his usually soft voice now strong and sorrowful even though the song should have been upbeat. “I keep a close watch on this heart of mine.”

By the second line, Eliot overcomes his surprise and jumps in, “I keep my eyes wide open all the time.”

More people join them, “I keep the ends out for the tie that binds.”

The whole platoon: “Because you’re mine, I walk the line.”

They finish the rest of the song and start another one. They sing for hours until they slowly lapse back into silence. The officers don’t give up trying to get them to quit. Nobody does. 

When the first glimmer of sun shows above the horizon, they cheer.

\---

Towards the end of Hell Week, Eliot wakes in the middle of the night. He had been sleeping deeply, dreamlessly, beyond exhausted. At first he’s disoriented and not sure what caused him to awaken, but then he notices that he can’t hear Wes’ breathing below him. Wes doesn’t snore like some of the other guys, but Eliot has come to know the distinctive cadence of his gentle, sleep-softened breaths.

Eliot peers over the edge of his bunk and finds Wes’ blanket rumpled and pushed towards the foot of the bed. Wes himself is nowhere to be found. Eliot scowls. They aren’t supposed to be out of bed until bugle call; if you gotta hit the head in the middle of the night, you’re supposed to hold it. As far as infractions go, it’s a minor one, but it could still land Wes in circus training or with extra duty punishments if he’s caught.

Eliot climbs down from the top bunk, careful not to let the creaky frame rattle under his weight. He slips noiselessly through the barracks and out the door, keeping to the shadows as he makes his way to the head. If Wes is gonna risk getting caught out of bed to take a dump, then Eliot might as well help him by scaring the shit outta him. And if they both get caught, well, then at least Eliot will be there to keep an eye on him. Wes doesn’t let it show, but Eliot knows getting singled out for circus training weighs on him. Not because of the gruelling extra exercises, but because Wes is, when it comes down to it, a bit of a perfectionist.

The only light in the head is the soft glow of the exit signs. Eliot eases the door closed, making sure the latch doesn’t click as he releases it. He can hear grunts of effort from the middle stall and has to stifle a snicker against his fist. Damn, dinner must’ve really done a number on Wes’ gut.

Eliot walks the way he’s been taught so that his feet are silent on the cement floor. The stall doors stay open unless occupied, so Eliot can easily tell where Wes is. He approaches the stall that is just before Wes’.

“Is someone there?” Wes whispers, voice strained.

Eliot freezes and waits. Wes’ grunts have paused. A long moment passes where Eliot is barely breathing, and he thinks maybe Wes isn’t either. Eliot’s feet are hidden from view right now, but it’s going to take a bit of finesse to get him where he wants to be without letting Wes see them or his shadow.

Cautiously, he takes a large step through the stall doorway and up onto the toilet. He momentarily thinks of the unsanitariness of standing on a toilet seat in bare feet, but honestly it can’t be any grosser than the communal showers. He pulls himself up slowly just as the noises resume from Wes’ stall. Eliot grabs the top of the stall partition with both hands, pops up so his head is over it, and yells, “BOO!”

Wes lets out a choked shriek, hunching over himself to block Eliot’s view, but not before Eliot realises - belatedly and embarrassedly - that Wes is not taking a dump after all. Eliot’s eyes go wide and he drops back down to the floor, stumbling out of the stall.

Wes’ stall door opens swiftly but quietly and he stomps out, still tucking himself back into his boxers. “What the hell, Spence?” he demands. “What are you doing?”

“What - What are  _ you _ doing?” he hisses back. “You’re not supposed to be out of bed!”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Eliot’s face is bright red and his jaws grind so hard he can feel a headache blooming. “So just stay in bed and beat it like the other guys. Why are you out here risking getting caught?”

Wes runs a hand over his buzzed hair. “I...I didn’t want to wake you up,” he mumbles.

Eliot’s jaw drops. It’s so ludicrous that he feels amusement bubble up under his horror. “Good job on that.”

Wes scowls at him. “How was I supposed to know you’d sneak out after me and try to give me a heart attack?”

“I thought you were taking a dump.” Eliot crosses his arms over his chest. “Hurry up an’ finish and go back to bed.”

Wes’ expression turns from annoyance to disbelief. “Hurry up and - what, are you just going to wait there while I…?” He gestures helplessly at the stall door.

It’s not a preferred way to spend his night, but if Wes is going to be stupid about this, then yeah. “I’ll be lookout. Just make it snappy so we can get back before Sarge notices we’re gone.”

“I can’t just make it snappy while you’re standing out here  _ waiting, _ ” Wes says.

Eliot rolls his eyes. “Want me to do it for you?”

“ _ No. _ ”

“Good. I don’t fuck around with sissies.”

They stand there for a prolonged moment, neither of them moving. At last, Wes sighs. “You’re not going anywhere.” It’s not a question.

“Nope.” He’s being stupidly bullheaded, he knows, but  _ damnit, _ he won’t be able to sleep knowing Wes is out here just waiting to get caught out of bed. They’ve taken way too much time out here already.

Defeated, Wes shuffles back into the toilet stall. Eliot turns his back to the stall, put his hands on his hips, and listens hard to the sounds outside, trying to figure out if someone is coming to bust them.

Fortunately - or unfortunately - all he can hear is the quiet shuffle of Wes doing...what he needs to do. He tries not to think about what each sound means. There’s a long pause and then, “I can’t do it.”

“Oh for -” This has gone on way too long. The extreme exhaustion catches up to Eliot and his body takes over where his brain has shut down; he huffs and stomps into the stall. It’s a tight squeeze as Eliot pushes in far enough that he can swing the stall door shut and lock it. Not that a lock’ll do any good if one of the officers comes in and finds them in there. There is no Army-appropriate reason for two men to be in the same toilet stall. He can practically see the dishonorable discharge with their names on it.

“ _ What the fuck, Eliot _ ?”

Eliot blinks at the use of his given name. He hasn’t heard it from another person’s lips in weeks, not even from Wes. To hear it now makes his hand twitch, his resolve falter. He squints his eyes into a scowl, bearing down on his emotions. “Just shut up, close your eyes, and think of one of those pretty girls across camp.” The words tumble from his mouth and he hears them as if being said by someone else.

Wes opens his mouth, maybe to argue, but then just closes it with a sigh of defeat. His eyes slip shut, and he braces himself against the wall.

His body moves on autopilot, reaching out to take Wes in hand. It’s just like jerking off, he thinks distantly, except he can’t feel the sensations he normally would. Little gasps and hitches stutter Wes’ breath. Eliot closes his eyes, too, so that his brain won’t come back online and tell him to stop, and he won’t have to see what Wes’ face looks like as pleasure overtakes it.

In no time at all, Wes finishes with a gasped warning that Eliot registers far too late. He makes a face as he pulls his sticky hand away. Wes grabs some toilet paper with a shaky hand, passes it to Eliot, who cleans himself up as best as he can. Wes sets his clothes in order.

Eliot unbolts the lock and goes to the trash can, pushes the used toilet paper as far down into it as he dares. Turns around to find Wes looking at him oddly.

“Do you want me to…” Wes trails off.

“Ain’t nothing for you to do,” Eliot says gruffly. It’s a lie, a damnable lie. He tells himself his body’s response is only natural. Sometimes it would react to hearing the others out on Head Hill, too. He’ll just wait until he’s safely back in his bunk to take care of it like a normal guy. “Except for us gettin’ the hell outta here.”

Wes nods. “Let’s go.”

They slip out into the dark night and back to their barracks. Ease the door open and shut. No one stirs. They’re back in their beds with no one the wiser.

And that should be the end of it. Sneaking out of bed once is risky; sneaking out of bed every night for a week to slip into the head and get each other off is damn near suicidal. It doesn’t make sense to Eliot at first, this tiny little occurrence that becomes nearly compulsive. They take turns being the first one out the door, the other following just a couple minutes behind. If asked under threat of torture, Eliot wouldn’t be able to explain why they did it. He never looks at Wes and thinks of him as sexy or someone he wants to bone, the way he does with Aimee or other pretty girls. But come night, he can’t stop himself from following or leading Wes out into the shadows, with nothing on his mind but sin and desire.

It must be because he’s so hard-up, he finally decides. Nothing more than simple pent-up lust that will take whatever touch it can get. He doesn’t try to examine it too closely.

Because all too soon, their time in Basic is up, and they get their official posts. They get a week to go home and see their families, and then they’re due to report to their new CO.

Wes and Eliot compare posts and find they will be sent to different places. Eliot tells himself it’s for the best, even as his gut pangs with disappointment.

“Stay in touch,” Wes tells him firmly, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Yeah, of course,” Eliot says. “You, too.”

Aimee is waiting for him at the bus depot. She looks just like she did when he left her a little over ten weeks ago. It feels impossible that so little time has passed. He’s a whole different person, and he expected her to be one, too.

Yet, the familiarity of sweeping her up into his arms and kissing her hard on the mouth brings him right back to  _ home, _ with everything that entails.

\---

T-Plus-4 Days

_ Excerpt of official transcript from Patient E.S.’s fifth one-on-one therapy session in the Pacific Northwest Addiction and Recovery Institute, Anger Counselling and Management Center. _

**14:52 ES [pause]**

**15:05 ES:** I like fishin’. Yeah, fishin’ makes me happy.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: more racist blatherings designed to appeal to the mark.

T-Plus-5 Days

_ Excerpt of official transcript from Patient E.S.’s fourth one-on-one therapy session in the Pacific Northwest Addiction and Recovery Institute, Anger Counselling and Management Center _

**48:20 DL** : Well, is there anything else you’d like to talk about today?

**48:31 ES:** Not really, no.

**48:42 DL:** Will your wife be coming today?

\---

Parker glared at the video screens. She was bored, bored,  _ bored _ out of her mind. Eliot was away, getting his head screwed on right, Sophie was away in the same place doing her best to unscrew the mark’s head, Hardison was still chasing down the maybe-corrupt judge’s financial records to see if he’d been bribed into giving Huber an easy sentence, and Nate was spending the morning getting into his Papadokalis character. He was going to go into the Institute as a sleazy lawyer to talk to Huber, get his brain-wheels turning on a scheme to not have to complete his time at the Institute.

“Baby, if you glare any harder you’re gonna crack my equipment telekinetically.”

Parker turned her eyes towards Hardison instead, not lowering the intensity one iota. “Telekinesis isn’t real.”

Hardison opened his mouth to say something, but then his face dropped a little and he just shrugged instead. “Yeah, I know. I was just teasin’.”

Parker sighed. “I miss Eliot.”

“He’ll be back soon,” Hardison said absentmindedly, turning his attention back to his computer screen. He was getting all hunchy over in his desk chair. If Eliot were here, he’d be bitching about Hardison’s terrible posture and how he’ll be an old granny before he turns 40. “Soon’s we crack Huber, he can come home.”

Parker shook her head. “I don’t mean it like that.”

Hardison glanced over at her, his normally expressive face guarded. “Oh,” was all he said.

Parker sighed again. She missed Eliot. And for that matter, she missed Hardison, too. A month ago, they had been in an amazing place: Eliot was opening up to them, they were exploring what could have possibly turned into a relationship - a Parker-Hardison-Eliot relationship, same as how it had previously been just a Parker-Hardison relationship - complete with sex and pretzels and everything. Eliot hadn’t been quite ready to label it that way, but they understood each other. Eliot didn’t need labels and names for his feelings, after all. He let his food speak for him. Once Parker understood that, she felt like she had cracked some Eliot-code that unlocked all manner of secrets and gems. Diamonds. Giant piles of pretzels-money. Money-pretzels? Either way, it was all good and all very Cereal.

But then Eliot had gone too deep into his thinky-place, and Hardison went and scared him off, and now -  _ now _ they were in a dark and jazzy place. A place that made her skin crawl and her ears screech. Eliot snapped and glared, Hardison tried placating and snarling back by turns (neither of which did any good, but at least he was trying different tactics), and Parker? Parker was just lost. She had been getting better at emotions and stuff, but this was out of her depth. So she retreated from both of them, letting them squabble and figure it out for themselves.

She wished she could ask Sophie about all this. But Hardison had pointed out Eliot liked his privacy, and pulling Sophie into the equation would probably just make things worse. So Parker had to let the thoughts circle around and around in her head until they were muddle-mushed and incomprehensible and she felt worse than before.

She sighed a third time, and Hardison, finally, straightened up and turned his full attention to her. “You’re bored,” he surmised.

“Yes.” Yes-but-no, actually, but Hardison didn’t want to hear more Eliot-thoughts when he needed to focus on the con. “Is it Visiting Day yet?” That, at least, would give her something to do, even if playing the doting wife was usually not her style. Plus she’d get to see Eliot and have an excuse to get up close to him.

“No. Well, yes, I mean, there are two visiting opportunities during the week, and one of them is today, but -” Hardison was babbling, and Parker’s eyes narrowed, overwhelmed by the words and trying to pick out the key ones - “don’t really need you to sneak in, so there isn’t any reason for Dellia Smith to go see her husband or -” who? Oh, right, Eliot was Ethan Smith, so Dellia must be the wife - “Papadokalis, and with Sophie already in there, there’s nothing for you to steal or plant, so -”

“So what am I supposed to do?” Parker demanded, putting an end to the rambling.

Hardison waggled a triumphant finger at her. “Did you think I was gonna leave you all to your lonesome with nothin’ to do? Not my baby. I need you to break into Judge Pratt’s office and see if you can find any evidence of a safe or secret little hideaway. Nate still ain’t convinced Pratt didn’t take some sort of bribe, but I can’t find anything overly suspicious in his accounts. Just your average run-of-the-mill tax fraud. So. If there was a bribe, it may have been cash.”

“Would he still have it laying around? I mean, I would, but that’s because I like big piles of money,” Parker said.

Hardison shrugged. “Worth a shot.” He had a point; besides it would give her something to do, and Parker got the sense that her flopping around and sighing was upsetting him for some reason.

“You got a way in for me?”

“You bet.”

It didn’t take long for Hardison to go over the courthouse blueprints with her and show her where Judge Pratt’s office was. Getting in would be a cinch. For a place that saw a lot of criminals every day, the security was laughable, at least by her usual standards.

She spent the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon memorizing floor plans, her cover story, and deciding which devices would best suit her break-in method. By mid-afternoon, she was ready. Pratt was scheduled to be in court until five, which gave her just over two hours to get down to the courthouse, infiltrate his office, and search it. Hardison gave her a couple of bugs to plant as well, just in case.

“And, hey, mama,” Hardison said as Parker prepared to leave (through the door, not the window, because apparently even Portlanders, who claimed to be weird, became alarmed at seeing a human climbing out of a second-story window when the building wasn’t on fire). “Don’t you worry. We’ll get him back. It’s just gonna take patience.”

Parker made a face. She’d  _ had _ patience. She’d waited and bided and planned and had finally -  _ finally - _ gotten Eliot exactly where she wanted him, and then he went and slipped through her fingers. He wasn’t supposed to be so difficult to catch. That was  _ her _ job. Doing each other’s jobs was only fun when it had amusing results. 

_ This  _ was not amusing.

\---

“Papad- wait, say that again?”

The lawyer’s grin was as oily as his hair. “Papadokalis. Pleasure to meet you, pleasure.”

“And, uh, why is that?” Adrian asked.

It was Visiting Day, which meant that there were no afternoon activities. Adrian had been sitting in the small rec room with Ethan, watching a college basketball game. When Adrian asked if Ethan’s wife would be coming, he just shrugged, eyes on the game, and said that she was none too happy with him right now. That was fair. Adrian wasn’t expecting anyone either, so it had been a bit of a surprise when one of the orderlies came over and said his lawyer was waiting to talk to him.

Adrian had gone into the large gatherings room, which had been transformed into an area more befitting multiple small groups rather than one large one. Small tables had been evenly placed throughout the room, with four chairs around each one. More chairs were stacked up by the wall for patients with larger families. Even though not every patient had visitors, there were enough parents, grandparents, wives, children, girlfriends, and boyfriends to make the large room feel small.

The lawyer the orderly pointed to was definitely not Adrian’s lawyer. This guy looked like he could have been an extra in  _ My Cousin Vinny _ , all slick hair and greasy mannerisms. “That’s not -” Adrian had started to say before the man caught sight of him and waved him over. In spite of his misgivings, Adrian went.

“Why?” Papadokalis repeated now, eyebrows arching. “Why? Because you’re a hero, man!”

Adrian had been called a lot of things by a lot of different people, but hero? No, never. “Me? What did I do?”

“Sure, you.” Papadokalis licked his lips and then smacked them together. Adrian saw a speck of spittle land on the table near his arm. He drew back an inch or three. “You know, our way of life these days is under attack. These -” he dropped his voice low - “these foreigners, like this Mr. Undar, they come in, they take our jobs, they take our money, they take our friggin’ parking spaces, for cryin’ out loud! They take and take and take, and do they do anything to help out or give back? No! All their money goes overseas to families who are too lazy to make a decent living.”

Adrian nodded. He followed the news, he saw the stories and articles. He’d grown up in New Mexico, seen his state overrun with illegals. Still, you couldn’t just come out and  _ say _ those things. The way people were these days, you had to be careful of every little thing coming out of your mouth. Especially in a town like Portland. He loved living there, but sometimes the hippies downtown could get awfully pushy. This guy - this Papadokalis - he clearly wasn’t from around here, if his nasally whine was anything to go by. So Adrian was content to let him say the things Adrian himself couldn’t, not put forth anything that could land him in trouble if his employers ever got wind.

“But you, you fought back against those bastards,” Papadokalis continued. “Well, one bastard. But it sends a message, hooo boy does it ever.”

Adrian looked down at his hands folded neatly on the table. “I wasn’t sending a message,” he corrected Papadokalis gently. “I just lost control.”

“Oh yeah, of course,” Papadokalis said with a wink. “Just lost control, yeah. Yeah, that’s what landed you in this place.”

“Instead of jail,” Adrian said. “Between the two, I know where I’d rather be.”

Papadokalis waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, sure, but what if you didn’t have to be in either?”

Adrian shrugged. Really, this place wasn’t that bad. He just had to play nice with the hippie therapists, dredge up a few stories of his overbearing prick of a father, connect the dots of his childhood to the big picture of how his life had shaped up after moving away. It wasn’t that difficult.

Except.

Except his new therapist was really starting to grate on his nerves. 

Except being here meant being away from work for six whole weeks, and things moved fast at Intel. 

Except Sanchez was right there, ready to swoop in and steal his job out from under him.

Except that more time spent away from the office was more time for stories to start going around and being blown out of proportion.

Except he was going to miss his sixth-month anniversary with Anna, and she hadn’t been to visit him once since he came here, and maybe her promise to still be there when he got out was as hollow as the space between her ears.

“How?” Adrian asked.

Papadokalis leaned forward conspiratorially. “I got some people who are willing to back you if you take this fight all the way to the top.” He glided his pointer finger upwards with a soft  _ schwoop _ sound for emphasis.

“Isn’t it a little late for that?” Adrian said. “I mean, I accepted the verdict and the sentence. I’ve already started serving it.”

“It could be overturned if new, ah, evidence were to come to light,” Papadokalis said. If his eyebrows rose any higher, they’d be in his hairline. “We’d get you out of here, you wouldn’t have to pay any of those hospital bills or fines, and you’d be back at work.”

“What sort of evidence?”

Papadokalis shrugged like it was of no concern. “A new witness we could dredge up, or you could recant your statement. We turn it political. A hardworking, red-blooded American standing up for his rights against the greedy foreigner who wants to undermine him and steal what is rightfully his. Incidents like these happen every day all over the country, but you took a stand. You fought back. Eh?”

It was a risk. He could smell that a mile off. It could easily backfire against him. “I’m not sure yet. I need to think it over.”

Papadokalis laughed and it was not a humorous sound. “Sure, think it over, yeah. You got, what, four more weeks here? Is that how long you’re gonna need to think it over, eh? Eh?”

Adrian gritted his teeth. “No, just until Sunday. That’s the next time visitors are allowed. I’ll have an answer for you by then.”

“All right.” Papadokalis grinned a shark’s grin. “Till Sunday, then.” He held out his hand for Adrian to shake, then oozed his way out of the facility.

Adrian sat back in his chair. He had a lot to think about. Papadokalis was slimy and reeked of corruption, sure, but there was something eerie about how truthful the story he wanted Adrian to tell was. And would the fact that it was truthful be a blessing or a curse? And was Adrian willing to take a risk, possibly lose a comfortable middle ground in order to win a better deal?

Well, Adrian hadn’t achieved the biggest wins in his life without taking a risk or two. And in the meantime, he didn’t have any access to his work email or voicemail, and Sanchez was out there, doing god knew what with his clients and his office.

Suddenly the risk seemed a lot more worth it.

\---

“ _ Okay, Eliot, so you’re gonna want to play up what a lousy place the Institute is. Be subtle, just like you have been to get Huber to turn against Sophie, _ ” Nate said over the comm after he left the Institute.

“Got it,” Eliot grumbled under his breath. He was still in the rec room, watching the game, but his mind wasn’t on it. He’d been listening to Jimmy Papadokalis turning the sleaze on Huber while Hardison and Parker talked about breaking into Pratt’s office. And Sophie was out there in the large gatherings room, talking to patients’ families, playing the role of therapist to a T. Essentially, it was a lot of noise all at once, and even though Eliot had learned to tune them out years ago, right now it was a little more distracting than usual.

But Parker had gone quiet a while ago, having headed out on her mission to get into Pratt’s office. Hardison was on his computer again, humming as he typed away at something. He’d forgotten to mute himself, again. Eliot was half convinced he did it on purpose, just to put those damn earworms into Eliot’s head, but he’d be damned if he was the one to call him out.

“Ethan?”

Eliot jerked out of his train of thoughts, glancing over the back of the couch at the orderly. “Yeah?”

“Your wife’s here to see you.”

Eliot’s brain froze. Parker? She was supposed to be sneaking around the courthouse right about now. She didn’t have anything she needed to bring into or out of the Institute. Besides, even if they  _ did _ need to get something in or out, Nate had just been here. He could have done it as easily as Parker. Or Sophie could do it, for that matter.

“Are you going to come see her?”

He didn’t have to see her if he didn’t want to. Patients had the right to turn away visitors if they so chose. He entertained the notion of having the orderly dismiss her, even as he pushed himself to his feet. “I’m comin’,” he mumbled.

No sooner had Eliot entered the large gatherings room than he found himself with a double armful of blonde thief. He barely had the wherewithal to brace himself as she launched herself into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist. He caught her automatically, although she didn’t really need him to hold her in place. She grinned down at him just long enough for him to realize her intention before she swooped in and kissed him thoroughly.

Sophie’s voice on the comms faltered, which she covered with a gentle cough. “ _ Tickle in my throat, _ ” she said. Hardison’s humming stopped completely.

Eliot broke the kiss, perhaps a little rougher than he should have. “What are you doing here?” he hissed at her.

“I’m supposed to be playing your wife, silly,” she reminded him. “Why wouldn’t a wife come visit her husband while he’s away?”

Eliot gritted his teeth and walked her over to a chair, depositing her gently into it. It took some coaxing to get her to unwind her legs from his waist. “Because, Parker,” he said so softly his voice barely made noise, “her husband is the kinda guy who gets into bar fights and lashes out at random guys with a frozen turkey. You think he keeps that kinda temper in check at home?”

It took a moment for his meaning to click. When it did, he almost felt bad for causing the horror to flash through her eyes. “You mean…” She glanced around at the other people in the room.

They looked like normal families. Happy families. Maybe they were, sometimes. Maybe the good times even outweighed the bad. But something had happened to each one of the men here, something big enough to put them in an  _ institution _ . If that didn’t say something to Parker, he didn’t know what would. “Yeah,” Eliot said, not unkindly. “Maybe next time, jumping into my arms might be a little overkill on selling the wife bit.”

He drew back but didn’t go far. The large gatherings room wasn’t ideal for a private conversation, especially since a few people were still gawking after Parker’s stunt, but at least everyone here had their own personal affairs to attend to. Eliot grabbed another chair and pulled it close so they could talk quietly and still hear each other over the general hum of conversations. “Why aren’t you at the courthouse?”

“That’s a really good question, Parker,” Nate said in that mild tone that meant he was giving you one chance to explain yourself before he busted your ass. “Don’t you have a safe to find?”

Parker shrugged. “I missed you.”

Eliot closed his eyes to fight back the instinctive glare he wanted to level at her. Jeopardizing the mission because she  _ missed  _ him? That was beyond the normal level of Parker insanity. That was just plain stupid.

But Ethan Smith wouldn’t be angry to see his wife. He would be happy, elated, grateful that she hadn’t decided to pack up in his absence. So he opened his eyes, gave her a smile that was only half forced, and said, “I missed you too, sweetheart.”

Something in Parker’s eyes faltered, like he’d said something wrong, and he knew - he  _ knew _ \- that they were fucking this up beyond repair, that everything happening between them rang hollow and untrue, and that if anyone was watching them (why, why would anyone be watching them?), they would see it was all just a ruse, a farce, a complete -

“Hi, there. Would you be Dellia?”

Eliot jerked out of his thoughts and flashed a tight smile up at Dr. Lehmann. Parker beamed at her, entirely more sincere. Since when had she become a better grifter than him? “Yes, I am. And you are…?”

Eliot cleared his throat. “Dellia, this is Dr. Lehmann, my, uh, my therapist.”

“Oh, it’s  _ such _ a pleasure to meet you!” Parker gushed. “I’m so glad my hubby is finally getting the help he needs. You know,” she said conspiratorially, “he just never was the same after the war.”

Dr. Lehmann nodded sympathetically, taking a seat at their table. “War is a deeply, deeply traumatic thing. But really, it’s Ethan here who is doing the work. I’m just guiding him along.”

Parker looked at Eliot with an expression worthy of Hardison at his hammiest. “I know. I’m so proud of him.”

“You should be.”

“Uh, Dellia. Sweetie,” Eliot cut in. “Didn’t you say you had an appointment to keep?”

“Hm?”

“At the...the courthouse. About the thing?”

“Oh, right.” She tapped a finger to her temple like  _ duh, silly me _ . “I’d lose my head if Ethan didn’t help me keep it attached. I really must go. I have an appointment.”

Dr. Lehmann glanced at the clock, surprised. “But you just got here.”

“I know, I know. I’m always running around like a chicken with its tail cut off.” She laughed, a little too loud and too manic. Dr. Lehmann gave an awkward chuckle in response.

“Don’t you mean head?”

Parker’s face scrunched up. “Head? Why would a chicken be running around after you cut off its head? That just doesn’t make sense.”

“It’s...it’s a thing,” Eliot mumbled, not wanting to get into the details of beheading chickens right now. “Don’t worry about it. You’re gonna be late.”

Parker jumped out of her seat to give Eliot a smacking kiss on the cheek before flouncing off, waving goodbye to Dr. Lehmann, who sat stunned for a moment. Eliot suspected it took a lot to rattle her. Which was exactly how Parker came across to most people when she first met them: a lot.

“She, uh, she does that all the time. I promise. You didn’t spook her or nothin’.”

“It’s a shame she couldn’t stay. She seems very, er, colorful,” Dr. Lehmann said. “I would have liked to get to know her.”

Eliot snorted. Of course a psychologist would be intrigued by Parker’s oddities. Parker could probably keep a dozen shrinks entertained for weeks on end just by being herself. “Sure.”

Dr. Lehmann considered Eliot with her inscrutable eyes, just like she did during therapy. He wondered if she had a hard time turning it off, just like he couldn’t stop himself from sizing people up for the best way to take them down. You never knew when an ordinary citizen could suddenly become a threat. “I genuinely meant that, Ethan. I do like getting to know people, and not just when they’re important to my patients. Dellia seems like a very sweet person.”

“Oh.” He didn’t really know what to say to that. “Uh, yeah, she is. She’s a good person. I-” What would a husband say at this point? “It’s one of the things I l-love about her.”

Dr. Lehmann’s face softened. “You know,” she said, sounding like they were just having a regular conversation, not one between a therapist and a patient, “the other shoe isn’t always waiting to drop.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, not everyone has an ulterior motive.”

Eliot ducked his head a little. “I never said they did.”

Dr. Lehmann nodded. “No, you didn’t.” 

The movement of her head didn’t match the words from her mouth, creating a disconnect that left Eliot a little off balance and he wondered if she hadn’t done it on purpose to get him to-

Oh.

Oh, that’s what she meant.

“Huh.”

Dr. Lehmann gave him a small smile, just the tiniest twitch of her lips. She rapped her knuckles on the table as she stood up. “Just something to think about. I really hope Dellia comes back on Sunday.”

Sunday was the next Visiting Day. It was when Nate would be coming back for Huber’s answer. If Eliot and Sophie played their cards right, it would also be the day Huber confessed to everything and “Dellia” would have no reason to be here.

“Me, too,” he said simply, and Dr. Lehmann’s smile widened a little before she moved on to speak with her next patient’s family.

\---

T-Plus-6 Days

_ Excerpt of official transcript from Patient E.S.’s fifth one-on-one therapy session in the Pacific Northwest Addiction and Recovery Institute, Anger Counselling and Management Center. _

**01:42 DL:** How are you today?

**01:55 ES:** Good.

**02:38 DL:** Anything else?

**02:46 [pause]**

**03:38 ES:** Still kinda, uh, reeling from yesterday.

**04:02 DL:** Something specific about yesterday?

**04:22 ES:** Dellia. Comin’ up outta nowhere.

**04:35 DL:** Her visit surprised you.

**04:42 ES:** Yeah. [ **humorless chuckle** ] Sounds stupid, don’t it? She’s - I’ve known her a long time. We been close a long while now. But she can still...do something like that.

**05:19 DL:** Like what?

**05:30 ES:** Make me feel...unbalanced. She’s unpredictable. She never does what’s expected of her.

**05:58 DL:** Hm. I have a question for you, Ethan, and don’t just answer right away. Think about it for a moment. How do you feel when someone does something unexpected or what they’re not “supposed” to.

**06:15 ES:** Why?

**06:19 DL:** Humor me.

**06:22 [silence]**

**07:28 ES:** I guess.... I guess, well… it- it’s hard to plan for.

**07:41 DL:** Do you always need to have a plan?

**07:49 ES:** Yes.

**07:52 DL:** Why?

**07:55 [silence]**

**09:03 ES:** It’s how I survived.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Canon-typical violence and death

T-Plus-6 Days

_ Excerpt of official transcript from Patient E.S.’s fifth one-on-one therapy session in the Pacific Northwest Addiction and Recovery Institute, Anger Counselling and Management Center. _

**19:22 DL:** Dellia said the war changed you.

**19:52 ES:** You shouldn’t listen to what Dellia says. She didn’t even know me before the war. We met years afterwards.

**20:35 DL:** Is she wrong?

**21:15 ES:** War changes everyone. Don’t matter who you are: soldier, civilian, winning side, losing side. Whether you’re on the front lines or safe and cozy back at home.

**22:32 DL:** So, how did it change you?

\---

Eliot spends his 20th birthday defusing a roadside bomb in Croatia. Springtime in Zagreb is mild, a bit wet, but overall nothing like the 80+ degrees he was used to back home. Nevertheless, sweat - which has nothing to do with the weak sunshine filtering through the clouds, and everything to do with the myriad wires and chemical smells coming from the car hood, not to mention his full combat gear - rolls down his back, making him itchy and tense. He turns his neck to loosen it, hears it crackle loud enough to startle the soldier next to him.

“Don’t tell me you’re worried about some li’l ol’ bomb, Spencer,” the soldier, Derrick Coombs, jokes. Because what else can you do when you’re staring death in the eye and willing it to blink first? Humor is their first and best line of defense sometimes.

Eliot cracks his knuckles as well, just for good measure. “Never me,” he says. It’s even mostly the truth. He’s seen similar bombs before, is pretty sure he knows which wires to keep, which ones to cut. He thinks he even knows which terrorist organization planted this particular bomb; it has a very distinctive pattern to the wires. He defused one similar to it just the other day. Worried? No. Especially when the guy with the steadiest hands this side of the Adriatic is standing next to him.

Still, there’s always that tiniest chance that this time death will get lucky. There’s always the chance he might be wrong or Coombs’ finger could slip or a sniper is waiting while they’re puzzling over the configuration of wires.

“Ready?” Eliot asks. Coombs nods. Eliot points to a thick bundle of wires. “Okay, lift those up, carefully. I gotta ease my knife under there and get at the cord underneath. Can’t touch the green wire. Got it?”

Coombs’ hands don’t tremble as he lifts the part Eliot points to. Man could have been a surgeon, his hands are that steady. Why he chose to go into combat rather than medicine, Eliot hasn’t asked and Coombs hasn’t offered. Eliot slides his knife under the bundle, cuts what he needs too, turns his head quickly to the side as he does - as if that will protect him should the bomb explode in their faces. Nothing. He smirks at Coombs, who grins back. They dismantle the rest of the explosives quickly before calling the all-clear.

All in a day’s work.

Eliot and Coombs continue their patrol on the outskirts of Zagreb. Coombs is a Yankee, but Eliot doesn’t hold that against him; he’s a down-to-earth guy, raised in the Bronx, scrappy and fierce like Eliot. He’s dark and quick and knows almost as much about boxing as Eliot. During their downtime, they like to spar. Eliot may know more about the rules and regs of ring fights, but Coombs’ lack of formal training is in some ways an advantage. He’ll do whatever it takes to win, and Eliot has learned quickly to do the same.

“Fuck the rules, man,” Coombs told him once when Eliot had been holding back too much and it ended with him nearly busting his nose. “This ain’t prom, and I ain’t gonna hold your hand.”

It took some time before Eliot could fully shake off every lesson Uncle Randy had ever given him about fighting fair and not going too hard on your opponent. Once he did, though, he felt something in his chest loosen and suddenly he felt unstoppable.

The next time he sparred against Coombs, he won easily.

Now, Eliot and Coombs make their way back to headquarters, watching out for any more surprise gifts from the enemies. A woman sits on the hood of a broken-down car, watching their progress as they come nearer. It’s hard to tell if she’s homeless or just decided that two American soldiers walking down the road were entertainment enough to sit down and watch. Or she could be an enemy, waiting to strike them down. Enemies came in all shapes and sizes.

As they pass, she mumbles something under her breath, but she doesn’t hurl any grenades or point a rifle their way. Eliot strains to make out the words, pieces them together from the bits of Croatian he’s picked up along the way. She seems to be cursing them out, calling them a litany of interesting names.

Eliot can’t help but admire her creativity in the multitude of curses thrown their way. So he smiles at her and waves as they pass, calling out in Croatian, “We’re here to help,  _ gospođo _ .”

“When the Devil comes to help, we are already in Hell,” she responds, but her voice is amused rather than scornful. She seems to find his broken Croatian funny.

They return to the bustle of HQ, check in with the desk sergeant, who acknowledges them with way too much self-importance and swagger for a desk jockey. As Eliot and Coombs unload their various equipment back into the armory storage, a little pipsqueak of a guy, fresh out of Basic by the looks of him, comes up to them. “Private Spencer?”

Eliot looks him over, raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

The kid snaps a salute. “You’ve been ordered to report to Major Vance as soon as you get back from patrol.”

Both eyebrows shoot up at that. He glances over at Coombs, who shrugs. Eliot nods at the kid. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.” The kid salutes again and leaves.

“Wonder what that’s about,” Eliot murmurs.

“Dunno, but you better get a move on. Vance isn’t known for his patience.”

Eliot nods, already moving. “See you later,” he calls over his shoulder.

People only get called up to Vance’s office for one of two reasons: they’re either in deep shit or they’re about to be put into deep shit. Eliot can’t think of anything he’d done recently that would warrant the former, so this could only be about the latter. Major Michael Vance is a tactical genius, and everyone on base knows it. They know that when there’s a sticky mission, Vance is the one the higher-ups call in to get the job done right. He can assess a soldier’s strengths and build a flawless team, ignoring frivolous divisions like platoon, company, or rank. His cavalier attitude is officially frowned upon, yet the missions continue to roll in for him. At least, that’s what the rumors say.

So it’s with an eager buzz settling in the pit of his stomach that Eliot raps his knuckles on Vance’s door and waits for the sharp, “Enter!”

Eliot pushes the door open and snaps his tightest salute. “Private First Class Eliot Spencer,” he announces himself. “I was ordered to report to you.”

Vance glances up at him. “At ease, Private.” He finishes whatever he’s writing down, then sits back and assesses Eliot, who has relaxed all of a fraction of an inch. “Private Spencer. You’re not quite what I expected.”

Eliot doesn’t offer any reply, merely waits for him to elaborate or move on.

Apparently this amuses Vance because his lips twitch in a little smirk. “They say you’re a good fighter.”

Eliot lifts his chin slightly. “Yes, sir.”

“How good?”

“Which style?” Eliot asks. It’s usually not a good idea to answer a question with a question when addressing a superior officer, but Eliot has excelled at several different types of combat, and he’s not sure which one Vance is interested in. “I got top marks on close- and long-range shooting with rifles and handguns, as well advanced proficiency with machine guns, grenades, and other explosives. I can -”

Vances holds up a hand. “I didn’t ask for your resume, Soldier. I asked if you’re a good fighter.”

Eliot pauses, considers, then says, “Yes, sir. One of the best you’ll find on this base.”

Vance nods, like that is what he is expecting to hear. “I heard you took down Lieutenant Turei in a sparring match.” Vance eyeballs him again. “He’s at least twice your size.”

Eliot can’t help but smile, remembering that victory. “He has a weak left knee and forgets to guard his flank. A well-timed feint let me get to his weak spots. I don’t think he’ll forget again.”

“And you knew about the weak knee before you sparred?”

“No, sir,” Eliot says. “I saw it in his stance.”

Vance looks down at a paper on his desk. “And what about Coombs? I hear you two regularly do no-rules sparring.”

Eliot shrugs. “There are some rules,” he allows. “Nothing that can take either of us out of commission.”

“Jimenez, Coltan, Kim, Derrich, Trosper -” Vance lists off several of Eliot’s routine sparring buddies. He’s taken all of them down more often than not. “You don’t go down easy, do you, soldier? Derrich said he nearly had to choke you out before you conceded defeat.”

“Yes, sir.” And then the next time he went up against Derrich - at his own insistence - he’d laid Derrich out in no time, utilizing every piece of information he’d gleaned from their first bout to assess Derrich’s weaknesses. The problem is, there are no do-overs in real combat. If your opponent bests you, you’re dead. Eliot’s jaw twitches, and he hopes Vance won’t hold a couple of losses against him. Take him out of the ring, put him in a real combat situation, Eliot feels confident he will come out victorious.

He just needs that chance to prove himself.

Vance grunts. “I need someone for a special mission. Someone who can clear the way for my specialists to do what they need to do. I want you on my team. I’ve already cleared it with your Colonel.”

Eliot’s body springs even straighter than it was before. “Yes, sir. I’m your man.”

Vance snorts. “I already know that. I wasn’t asking your permission,  _ Private _ . I just wanted a look at you before I made my decision. You don’t look like much, but the fact that you can assess an opponent’s weaknesses and use them to take down someone twice your size is a value I need for this mission. Report back here at 2030 hours for the briefing. Don’t go babbling about what we’ve discussed. Dismissed.”

Eliot salutes one more time and takes his leave. His head is buzzing with eagerness. He wonders what the mission is. He’ll find out in just a few hours, he knows, but the anticipation gets under his skin, makes him itchy. He’s so lost in his thoughts that he moves around another soldier (another private, he notices without conscious thought, so he doesn’t salute) in the hallways without registering his features until he hears a familiar “Spence?”

Eliot whips around faster than is strictly dignified. “Wes?” He grins. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in Saudi.”

They had been writing to each other - infrequent letters that barely glossed over the whos, whats, and wheres of their missions - but seeing Wes here, now, sends a wave of  _ something _ through Eliot. A feeling of having something back that he hadn’t realized was gone until just now. It makes his heart swell and his stomach clench.

“I was brought out here on transfer,” Wes explains. “I’m supposed to meet with a major for something.”

Eliot takes a step towards him. “Major Vance?” he asks eagerly.

Wes’ eyes shift. “I’m not supposed to say.”

That all but confirms it. Eliot is 95 percent certain now that whatever mission Vance is sending him on, Wes will be there, too. Eliot wants to whoop with joy. Instead, he reaches out a hand to Wes, who grins as he takes it. They step into a hug, pounding each other’s backs with more force than strictly necessary. And if the hug lasts a beat too long, well, neither of them are going to mention it. And there’s no one else in the hall to witness it.

“I’ll see you later,” Eliot says. “You don’t want to keep the major waiting.”

They go their separate ways; Eliot makes for the mess hall, already knowing there’s too much going on in his head for him to eat.

\---

The team consists of five more soldiers other than Eliot and Wes, all with many more missions and experience under their belts. Most of them have completed at least one of Vance’s special tasks before. They size each other up, instantly full of brotherhood and camaraderie. Eliot is so used to fellow soldiers trying to best or one-up each other that this takes him aback for a moment.

“Look,” one of the soldiers, Syzmanski, says, catching Eliot’s wary expression, “if Vance says you’re good, then you’re good. You got nothing to prove to us, just don’t get us or yourself killed.”

Of the seven of them, Syzmanski has the most experience doing these not-quite-on-the-record missions, so Eliot nods briefly and relaxes.

His mind buzzes with eagerness throughout the briefing. The details are sketchy at best, Vance explaining that the less they know about each other’s roles, the better. That way, if one of them is captured and tortured, he can’t give away any vital information about the mission or the other men’s positions.

_ That _ gets Eliot’s attention, pushing away half-baked scenarios of him shooting down an entire building full of terrorists. This isn’t an action movie, nor is it going to be anything like going on patrol and disarming bombs or befriending wary civilians. This is beyond simple life-and-death, and if Eliot doesn’t pay attention, it could be Wes’ life on the line. Eliot is meant to provide him cover as he goes in and does his part of the mission, which is to retrieve something from deep in enemy territory over in Afghanistan.

Syzmanski is in charge of transporting them to where they need to be, and as soon as Vance dismisses them, he shepherds them down a service hallway and out into a dark alley. There, he tells them to wait as he brings around a jeep for them to load up in. Their supplies are minimal; it’ll be harder to sneak a lot of stuff into somewhere they’re not strictly supposed to be, after all. So they travel light, with Eliot being given one long-range rifle, one handgun, and a couple boxes of ammunition.

“Shoot discriminately,” Delacour tells him in a thick New Orleanian accent. “And best be sure your aim is true.”

It takes them two days of transportation hopping and bribing their way through the Middle East before they come anywhere close to their destination. Wes and Eliot use that time to catch up on the last couple of years. They fall back into an easy rapport, joking and teasing each other as if they have never been apart. The other soldiers usually laugh along with them, but occasionally an inside joke leaves Eliot and Wes breathless with mirth while the others are mystified. Something deep inside Eliot likes that they don’t get it, don’t understand - that these little moments are something that belong to just him and Wes.

They don’t touch each other, though, almost to the point of being conspicuous. It would hardly be unusual to nudge a friend, punch his arm, a little brotherly contact that nobody would think twice about. But they do think twice. Or at least Eliot does, but if the aborted gestures he occasionally sees Wes make are any indication, then he’s not the only one. It’s for the best, Eliot knows. They’re way beyond all of  _ that _ stuff, it’s all in the past, and it seems they are in complete agreement on that fact. So the not-touching continues and it’s all perfectly normal, even if the others do give Wes a weird look when he goes to pat Eliot on the back but then changes it into an awkward, inappropriately-timed salute instead.

At last, they reach the outskirts of a tiny village on the Pakistan side of the border between Afghanistan and Pakistan, a mountainous area that barely looks like it can sustain any sort of life. Yet, the locals have made their homes there for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. It’s a simple, effective way of life that doesn’t seem all that different from back home. Something tightens in Eliot’s gut at the thought.

Their arrival is unusual enough to create a stir among the locals, and Syzmanski informs them they will have to move fast. News can spread quickly here, even without a phone in every household, and they need the element of surprise for this mission to work. They need to sneak over the border into Afghanistan, that much Eliot has been given to understand. But seven American soldiers, even if they’re out of uniform, will attract attention no matter what.

So Syzmanski goes to talk to one of the village leaders to ask how to get over the border. Eliot doesn’t understand what the man is saying, but there’s a lot of head shaking and pointing in a general western direction. At last, Syzmanski stomps back over.

“Good news, bad news,” he informs them. “This man can take us up into the mountains. He’s got a Jeep. He’s the only one in the village with a car. But he can only take us so far. We’ll have to walk the last twenty or so miles. We leave at nightfall.”

Night comes fast in this part of the world, so it’s not long before they’re piling into the man’s Jeep and heading up into the rocky paths that can barely be called roads. A few times the car makes such sharp turns or crawls along so slowly that Eliot is sure they’re about to pitch into an endless abyss. He clings to the nearest sturdy piece of framework (which is somewhat difficult to find on a rusted out, doorless, wind-battered vehicle like this one) and doesn’t push Wes away when he crowds a little too close. It’s all they can do not to tumble out at any given moment.

The Jeep pulls to a stop and this is it. They file silently out of the car, sticking close in the pitch-black night. The moon is just barely waxing crescent, giving off too little light to be of much use. It’s a long trek, made even longer by the need for quiet and to pause frequently to make sure they’re all still there. When Syzmanski needs to give them orders, he does so in a voice so silent it can’t even be called a whisper.

They stop to rest as the sun rises, secluding themselves in a dark and musty cave that’s barely big enough to hold all of them. They take turns sleeping, two people on watch at all times. Eliot volunteers to be the person who takes two shifts, which has him paired up with Syzmanski during the first shift and - as luck would have it - Wes for the second one. Eliot doesn’t say anything to him, doesn’t even look at him, but he can feel them breathing in unison.

They move out again at midday. After travelling at night, Eliot feels exposed by the sunlight. He glances behind them frequently, certain they’re being followed, but he sees nothing. At least they’re able to make better time now that they can see the path ahead of them, covering several miles in just a couple of hours.

They’re going downhill on a road that can barely be called such when Syzmanski gestures for them to move into the undergrowth and halt. He points to Wes and another soldier, Carrington, then down the road another half-mile or so where they can see what looks like a crevice or a cave. Wes nods. Syzmanski points to Eliot next, then up at a rocky ledge where he’ll have the perfect view of the cave entrance. Eliot nods, understanding. He unslings his rifle and begins to climb.

The others spread out. Eliot doesn’t know what it is about this specific cave, doesn’t know what Wes and Carrington are supposed to do inside of it. Doesn’t know, doesn’t want to know. He will cover his teammates as they perform their part of the mission; that’s enough for him.

Carrington and Wes have only been in the cave for a few short minutes before Eliot sees movement coming up the road from the other direction. He resettles his rifle for better aim and waits. It doesn’t take long. He hears them speaking - can’t make out the language but he thinks it might be Urdu - calm at first, then excited. He sees four, no, five enemies. He holds his position as long as he can, knowing that as soon as he opens fire, they will know the enemy is here, and they can call for reinforcements.

One of the enemies points to something on the ground - a boot print or some other evidence of Eliot’s team - and the words become angrier, more feverish. They bound towards the cave, and Eliot doesn’t wait any longer. He opens fire, picking off two of them immediately. A third one goes down with a slug in his shoulder but he has enough life in him to pull out a walkie-talkie and shout something into it. Syzmanski steps out from behind a pile of rocks and slits the guy’s throat before he can put up any more of a fight, but they know the damage is done. More enemies are on their way.

“Stay there, Spencer,” Syzmanski calls to him, the need for silence moot now. “We’ll head them off. You pick off anyone who gets past us and don’t let them into that cave.”

“Roger!”

He waits. For too long, it is quiet, and he tenses at every tiny sound. This is a good thing, he reminds himself; if it’s quiet, that means no one is getting past Syzmanski and the others. But Eliot has no way of knowing what is happening to Wes in the cave.

Two enemies come tearing up the path towards the cave. One goes down with Eliot’s bullet in his head. The other has just enough time to register the fallen bodies around him and ducks behind an outcropping before Eliot’s bullet can find him. Eliot curses and waits. The guy will have to move eventually.

Eliot can see him doing something behind those rocks, shadows twitching and shuffling, the sound of a hammer cocking echoing through the terrain. It sounds like an HK SR9, Eliot is pretty sure. Semi-automatic, German design, long-range precision. A sniper rifle, not unlike the one Eliot is currently wielding.

The guy darts briefly from behind the rocks to shoot at Eliot, who ducks instinctively. This gives the guy the opportunity he is waiting for; even though Eliot is down for just a few seconds, he takes advantage of the clear path to dash for the cave. Eliot fires off a quick shot that goes wide, no time to aim properly. A bullet wasted, and the guy disappears into the cave.

Eliot has no time to think. Cursing his stupidity, he scrambles down the outcropping to follow the enemy into the cave. Slings the rifle over his shoulder, unholsters his handgun. Once inside the cave, he sees that it goes deep into the mountainside, twisting and turning and branching off in several places.

Eliot pauses and listens. Waits for the distinctive sound of footsteps retreating into an echoing crevasse. Right. Left. Right again. Straight on. Eliot walks as quickly as he can while stepping softly to mask his presence. The only light is a tiny flashlight he turns on sporadically just to make sure he won’t step wrong and break his ankle. The guy is probably already aware he’s being followed - there’s no need to give away his position, too.

It takes Eliot nearly ten minutes to catch up to the guy, can hear his footsteps heavy and close by. Eliot turns his flashlight on one more time, catches the guy straight in the face; he flinches away from the sudden bright light, and Eliot doesn’t hesitate.  _ BAM-BAM _ . Two shots with the handgun, straight in the chest. The guy falls into a lifeless heap. Eliot relaxes, his mistake corrected.

More footsteps pound towards him. Eliot tenses again, handgun raised and ready, flashlight shining steadily in the direction the steps are sounding from. Two figures appear, guns also raised. Eliot jerks his gun up the moment he recognises their distinctive stance.

“It’s me,” he calls to them. He points the flashlight up so that he’s more illuminated and so they won’t be blinded when looking in his direction.

Wes steps forward, relaxing and lowering his gun. “Eliot? You were supposed to stay at the cave entrance.”

Eliot gestures at the fallen enemy. “This guy got through. I had to take him down before he got to you.”

Wes still looks a little puzzled. “One guy? We could have taken care of him.”

“But-” Eliot starts to say, then stops. He’s been foolish; of course Wes and the other soldier could have eliminated a single enemy who got past Eliot’s defenses. And now the entrance has been left open, defenseless. “ _ Shit. _ ”

“C’mon,” Carrington says. He gestures back the way Eliot came from. “We better go.”

Wes is tucking something into his pocket. “Are you done in here?” Eliot asks him.

“Almost,” Wes says. “But we can’t finish until we’re outside.”

Eliot takes the lead, moving at a quick and assured pace. They have no need to be quiet now, so they’re able to move faster, and Eliot remembers the twists and turns. They’re almost at the entrance, when Eliot realises he can hear several voices ahead, echoing and overlapping - it sounds like they’re charging the entrance.

Eliot lifts his handgun, takes aim. He can see five guys, just inside the entrance. Wes and Carrington lift their guns as well. They have the advantage of being able to see, while their enemies’ eyes have not had time to adjust to the darkness yet. Eliot fires and one of the enemies goes down. Wes and Carrington fire as well, and the enemies get over their initial shock and start firing back. Something hits his hip hard enough that he falters and his aim goes wide, but his next shot is true. Whatever rock he ran into will have to wait; instead, he concentrates on taking down the rest of the guys in the entrance before darting out into the dwindling daylight to scan for more enemies. They’re clear.

“We need to move,” Wes hisses. “Spence, are you okay?”

Eliot stares at him. “Of course I’m okay, what do you…?” His eyes follow Wes’ gaze and he is shocked to see a hole in his uniform, just at his right hip bone. He didn’t run into a jutting rock after all; it was a bullet that tore into his hip, causing blood to soak into his pants. “ _ Shit _ .”

Wes kneels down in the dirt to examine Eliot’s hip. “I think it’s just a graze,” he says quietly. “A deep one, but you should be fine.” He stands up and fumbles his uniform jacket up to get at his undershirt, which he tears a large chunk off of. Hands it to Eliot and gestures at his hip. “Hold that to it to stem the bleeding, and let’s go.”

Eliot does as he is told, transferring his gun to his left hand instead. His aim isn’t as good with his left, but it’s better than being unarmed and leaving his team exposed. He follows Wes, checking back frequently to make sure they aren’t being followed. About a hundred yards down the mountain, Wes stops and pulls something out of his pocket. It’s a little remote.

“Cover your ears,” he warns them, and hits the button on the remote. The cave that they just exited explodes.

Eliot flinches back in spite of himself. “Holy fuck.”

Wes smiles grimly. “Come on. We need to get to the rendezvous point. The explosion is the signal the mission was successful. Syzmanski is going to meet us and then we gotta go.” He takes hold of Eliot’s arm on his injured side, silently encouraging Eliot to put some of his weight on him.

Eliot allows him, even though it’s not strictly necessary. The pain is starting to catch up to him as the adrenaline fades, and his support feels good.

\---

Once they’re back at the nearest US Army base, it doesn’t take long for the doctor to clean out the bullet wound and sew it up. The whole time, Eliot is a bundle of nerves, snapping and snarling. Not from the pain, but from the knowledge that he fucked up. He knows the other shoe is about to drop at any moment; the only question is if he will be demoted or dishonorably discharged.

Wes finds him in the training center, working his frustrations out on a punching bag. “Hey, should you be doing that?” Wes asks.

Eliot shrugs. “I ain’t kickin’ it.” He throws another punch at the bag as if this proves his point.

“Major Vance is here. He wants to see you.” Wes won’t look Eliot in the eye, staring at his hip instead.

Time to face the music. “Okay.” He wants to tell Wes goodbye because who knows if they’ll ever see each other again. His jaw twitches, lip struggling to betray his emotions. He holds out his hand, which Wes takes with bemusement and gives it a professional shake. Eliot wants to pull him in for an embrace, but he’s not sure he’d be able to let go.

“See you later,” Wes says, releasing his hand.

Eliot grunts something in response and strides out of the training center, not letting the pain in his hip cause him to limp.

\---

“How’s your wound?” Vance asks.

Eliot blinks at him. The yelling hasn’t started yet - in fact, Vance looks like he actually cares how Eliot is faring. “Uh, fine, sir. It should heal quickly, the docs said.”

“Good,” Vance says. He taps his pen against the desk he’s using while temporarily at this base. “You let me know when you’re cleared for full duty. Syzmanski says you performed admirably and I have another mission that I think you’ll fit per-”

“Sir?” Eliot interrupts, unable to stop himself.

Vance glares at him. “What?”

“I - I don’t -” Eliot flounders, not sure what’s going on. “Syzmanski said I did a good job?”

“He said you followed your orders to a T and got your teammates out of a sticky situation. He said you thought fast on your feet.” Vance gives him a searching look. “Didn’t take you for a praise hound, Spencer.”

“I - I’m not,” Eliot says. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t know he thought so highly of my performance.”

“Hm. Well, he did,” Vance says. “So you let me know the minute you’re cleared for duty.”

“Yes, sir. I will.”

“Dismissed.”

\---

It takes a while for Eliot to track Syzmanski down, and by the time he does his hip is aching something fierce. “Can I have a word with you, sir?” he asks Syzmanski, who nods and bids farewell to the soldiers he’d been shooting the shit with.

“Are you alright, Spencer?” Syzmanski asks. “You look pale.”

“Why didn’t you tell Vance about my fuck up?” Eliot demands without preamble or answering Syzmanski’s question. Syzmanski knew Eliot had left his post because he’d been fully briefed after the rendezvous. Eliot had told him exactly what he had done, and Wes and the other soldier in the cave had told him the full story as well. “I almost blew the mission or got someone killed.”

Syzmanski grunts. “Believe it or not, that’s hardly the worst thing you could have done on the mission. You made sure your comrades got out of that cave safely and completed their part. You were thorough. And you took a bullet for your trouble. No, you shouldn’t have left your post, but you were chasing down someone who got through your defenses. I spoke with Keats, and he vouched for you. In the heat of the moment, you could’ve done a lot worse. I’ve been on a lot of Vance’s special missions, and I’ve seen the shit hit the fan in much worse ways. Stop beating yourself up and make sure you do better next time.”

“I will, sir,” Eliot vows.

\---

Wes finds Eliot late that night, in a quiet corner of the base, just thinking. He’s been meaning to make his way to his bunk for a while now, but can’t seem to find the energy to stand. Wes rolls his eyes when he sees Eliot on the ground, sighs. “Can you stand?”

“Yeah,” Eliot says. “I just thought this was a nice place to sit down for a minute.”

Wes looks around at the ugly grey walls and the concrete floor, and raises an eyebrow. “Of course.” He plops down on the floor next to Eliot. “How long have you been sitting here?”

“About an hour.”

Wes shakes his head. “You’re such a stubborn asshole.”

“You vouched for me,” Eliot says. “Syzmanski told me.”

Wes gives him a confused look. “Vouched? I didn’t know you needed vouching for. I only told him what happened on our end of things.”

“I left my post,” Eliot reminds him. “I disobeyed orders.”

“Eliot,” Wes says, aghast. “You came to protect me - and Carrington.” There’s just the slightest of pauses, as if it takes Wes a moment to remember there was another soldier Eliot was assigned to guard. “And you got injured getting us out of there. As far as I’m concerned, you did the heroic thing.” He reaches over and brushes his fingers over the bullet hole in Eliot’s hip. Eliot’s whole body tingles at the touch, even as a spark of pain radiates from that spot.

Eliot swallows. “I’m not a hero. But, uh, thanks. I was fully prepared to be sent packing.”

Wes shakes his head. “I wondered why you looked so hangdog when I told you Vance wanted to see you.”

They sit in silence for a while until Eliot’s hip begins to spark so sharply he has to shift. He’s just about to suggest they get up, when Wes asks, apropos of nothing, “How’s Aimee?”

Eliot freezes. It hasn’t come up since they ran into each other again and it’s not like Eliot has wanted to just blurt out the news of what Aimee did. How he didn’t mean to abandon her, and how she couldn’t wait around for hollow promises. How he was only supposed to be gone for three weeks, that’s what the Army had told him, and then he’d been sent away for six months. How she must be married by now, maybe even pregnant, since that’s how things usually go back home. He wants to tell Wes about all of this, lay out all of his anger and fear and heartbreak until there’s nothing left inside him but the physical ache of real wounds that will actually heal.

“We broke up,” he says instead, like it was mutual, like it didn’t still cut him to the bone to think about her.

Wes’ arm comes up around his shoulders, pulls him in tight. “I’m sorry.”

Eliot shrugs.

And that moment, that closeness, is all it takes for them to fall back into that old pattern from Basic.

\---

Vance gives Eliot more missions. Many involve Wes, some don’t. Vance likes the way they work together. They meet up more and more, crossing paths. They don’t sneak off at every opportunity, but there are enough late-night trysts that they start trying new things. Eliot never lets his connection to Wes override his understanding of his duty again. Vance tests him out on a variety of tasks, and Eliot rises to each one. 

\---

T-Plus-6 Days

_ Excerpt of official transcript from Patient E.S.’s fifth one-on-one therapy session in the Pacific Northwest Addiction and Recovery Institute, Anger Counselling and Management Center. _

**23:06 ES:** I don’t know that it changed me, exactly. It just brought out who I am.

**23:36 DL:** Who would you be if you hadn’t enlisted in the Army? Would you not be you, then?

**24:01 ES [shifting noises]:** I...I don’t know. I ain’t never thought about it. I mean, what’s the point? I am who I am, and I did what I did. There’s no goin’ back to change it.

**24:52 DL:** I didn’t mean to agitate you, Ethan.

**24:59 ES:** I’m not.

**25:05 DL:** What does it make you feel when you think about who you could have been if you hadn’t enlisted?

**25:39 ES:** Nothing.

**25:43 DL:** You don’t feel anything?

**25:50 ES:** No.

**25:52 DL:** I don’t believe you.

**26:25 ES:** What?

**26:31 DL:** I don’t believe you feel nothing. In the time that I’ve gotten to know you, I’ve noticed that not only do you feel many emotions, you feel them all deeply. So, no. I don’t believe you. What do you feel when you consider who you might have been if you hadn’t enlisted?

**27:15 ES:** I don’t know, alright? Damnit, I can’t even think about it because I  _ accept  _ who I am and what I’ve done, and I can’t change it. The only things I can change is who I am going forward. I hurt people, okay? I fought in multiple wars and I did things I can’t even begin to explain. I - I don’t know who I would be. That person.... he don’t exist.

**29:18 DL:** Thank you.

**29:35 ES:** For what?

**29:38 DL:** I think that’s the first time in your whole week here you’ve been entirely honest with me. I appreciate it. This is where the real progress will begin.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Canon-typical violence, food metaphors
> 
> This is it. This is The Chapter, y'all. Feel free to yell at me in the comments.

T-Plus-7 Days

_ Excerpt of official transcript from Patient E.S.’s sixth one-on-one therapy session in the Pacific Northwest Addiction and Recovery Institute, Anger Counselling and Management Center. _

**07:32 DL:** What’s on your mind?

**07:39 ES:** Pretzels.

**07:41 DL:** Are you hungry?

**07:50 ES:** No, I’m just thinking about them.

**07:58 DL:** What about them?

**08:25 ES:** Well, see...they’re pretty good, right? As a snack, they’re nice and filling. A bit bland, but that’s okay.

**08:59 DL:** Sure.

**09:08 ES:** Every once in a while you get a craving for them.

**09:16 DL:** Okay.

**09:22 ES:** But you add something else, a contrasting ingredient, and suddenly they’re amazing. Best thing you’ve ever eaten. Like chocolate. Chocolate-covered pretzels. They’re not healthy for you, but they’ll fill you up even faster. And dark chocolate has some health benefits in moderate amounts.

**10:06 DL:** Yes, that’s true.

**10:15 ES:** But then you start to get more adventurous, right? You think one more ingredient will enhance the flavor. Something to spice it up a little. Like a bit of cayenne powder. Not a lot because you know too much will hurt the flavor balance, but just a bit. And it’s good. It’s real good.

**11:24 DL:** It sounds delicious.

**11:35 ES:** But it’s so good that you eat too much and you get sick. Or you add too much cayenne and ruin the balance. Or you leave them sitting too long and the cayenne breaks down the chocolate and eats away at the pretzels underneath. You’ve ruined them. You got greedy, and the whole thing is destroyed. And what if you can’t go back to regular chocolate-covered pretzels after that anymore? And it’s all the stupid cayenne’s fault.

**13:52 DL [pause]:** I feel like we’re not really talking about food, are we?

\---

T-Plus-7.5 days

Eliot became aware of a presence in his room before he was even fully awake. His eyes snapped open, hand sliding under his pillow to grasp the makeshift knife he’d put together during his first night in the institution. In the next millisecond, he recognized the figure standing near his window and relaxed.

Marginally.

“Parker, what the hell are you doing here?” he demanded in a harsh whisper.

Parker moved silently across the short distance from window to bed. Eliot sat up, intent on putting some space between them. Unfortunately, it backfired as Parker took this move as an invitation to sit down on the narrow bed.

“I missed you,” she said softly.

“Stop  _ saying _ that,” Eliot hissed. “You can’t be here. You’ll get me kicked out.”

“Do they come and check on you in the middle of the night?” Parker asked.

“No, but -”

“Then it’s fine.” Parker moved like quicksilver, snuggling up against Eliot’s side before he could stop her.

“Parker…”

“Eliot.”

“Eliot.” Hardison’s voice crackled over the earbud. Eliot always slept with it in while on missions - he never knew when he’d have to go rescue one of the others (Nate) from a stupid midnight mistake or ambush.

“Hardison,” Eliot growled, a little louder than he should have. “What’re you doin’, lettin’ Parker sneak over here?”

Hardison scoffed in their ears. “I ain’t her keeper, man. Parker does what Parker wants.”

“Did you even try to stop her?” Eliot demanded. The side Parker had attached herself to was growing overly warm. He knew he should push her off, but he didn’t know if he could without hurting her.

“Now, why would I do that?” Hardison asked, sounding infuriatingly smug. “She’s just doin’ what we’ve both been dying to do for ages.”

“I only been here a week,” Eliot pointed out.

“I don’t mean breaking into the institute. Are you doing it, baby girl?”

“Sort of,” Parker said, snuggling closer. “I’ve got hold of one of his arms and I’m all pressed up against his side.”

“What the hell have you been dying to do, exactly?” Eliot asked, injecting as much gruffness and anger into his voice as he could while keeping quiet. To be honest, it was quite a lot.

“Hug the ever-lovin’ shit outta you until you stop being a grumpy dick and talk to us about what’s  _ wrong, _ ” Hardison said.

Eliot felt the fight drain out of him, all the anger and resentment seeping away until he was just left with a bone-deep exhaustion. “And why haven’t you tried it before, huh, Hardison?” he asked. “Why wait until now?”

It was a rhetorical question, of course, because they all knew the answer. Eliot just wanted to hear Hardison admit it out loud.

“Because you’d just push us away,” Parker said. “You weren’t ready.”

Eliot growled. Wrong answer from the wrong person. “What makes you think I won’t push you away now?”

“Because if you make a lot of noise, you’ll draw the attendant down there and blow the mission by getting kicked out,” Hardison said. “You wouldn’t do anything to blow the mission.” Eliot hated how triumphant he sounded, like he had won some sort of game against Eliot.

“And because you haven’t yet,” Parker added.

“I can still change my mind,” he said, starting to ease his arm out of Parker’s grasp. She just tightened her hold, and he resigned himself to being captive for a little while longer.

“I won’t let go easily,” she informed him. Like he didn’t know that already.

“I won’t, either,” Hardison added. “Metaphorically, that is.”

“Not until you  _ talk _ to us. Tell us what happened,” Parker said.

“You know what happened,” Eliot said. “You both do. You don’t need me to draw you a picture.”

“I mean, honestly, man? We might just need exactly that, ‘cause shit ain’t adding up,” Hardison said. He sounded almost as annoyed as Eliot felt. That was how things had been going for the last several weeks: Hardison or Parker would try to be nice, Eliot would get prickly, then they would prickle back, causing Eliot to feel guilty, which would make him lash out worse. It was an unending loop, and Eliot knew it needed to stop, but he didn’t know how. “You overreacted to a little misunderstanding and -”

“ _ I almost killed you, Hardison _ ,” Eliot snapped, just barely remembering to keep his voice down.

“I’m  _ fine _ , Eliot. All in one piece, no harm done -”

“Yes, harm done,” Eliot said, struggling to extricate himself from Parker’s grip. He suddenly felt hemmed in, trapped. “ _ Get off _ .”

Parker let him go and sat back a little ways, but she didn’t get off the bed or leave. She simply eyed Eliot speculatively and waited for him to settle back down. “Walk us through it, Eliot,” she said calmly. “Draw us the picture. Because we really don’t understand.”

“Then you have a death wish,” he said. “Both of you do.”

Still, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, and told them exactly what had happened that made this - this  _ thing _ turn to shit.

\---

_ It had been just over a week since  _ that night _ , the one where Eliot let go of his inhibitions and joined Parker and Hardison in fuc-… no, lov-....no, sex. Just sex. Admittedly really intense, eye-opening sex. But still, it had been for an entirely practical reason, and nothing further needed to come of it. _

_ Except that Parker and Hardison had made it clear they would be fine if  _ something  _ further came of it, if Eliot wanted. _

_ And Eliot wanted. _

_ So he left them a subtle signal the morning after, as he snuck out the door, a clue that if they wanted to continue with something more, he might be ready for that. Eventually. A stupid little cereal box, which no one else would have understood to mean anything, meant everything to them. Because in Parker’s weird brain, cereal was good and jazz was bad and Garfield was somewhere in the middle. _

_ So he left them with a heaping, hearty breakfast and a miniature box of cereal to signal all was good, all would be good. _

_ He had essentially left the ball in their court, waiting to see what their next move would be. It had yet to come, which was fine by Eliot because he had a lot to think over in the meantime. For a little while, he considered the idea that it really had been a one night only tryst, but then he caught Hardison looking at him during a team meeting/dinner and the look in the man’s eyes made his intentions clear: Hardison wanted nothing more than to devour Eliot right then and there. Eliot’s breath caught. He hoped fervently that Nate and Sophie hadn’t noticed or, if they had, might mistake the look for something else. _

_ So, Eliot figured, they were content to wait for him to come to them, but probably not for much longer. Parker in particular had limited patience. Hardison could probably last a while longer (seeing as how he’d waited for so long for Parker), but even he had his limits. _

_ Which meant Eliot needed to figure out what he wanted from them, and soon. _

_ Eliot was upstairs in Hardison and Parker’s apartment over the brewpub, setting out ingredients for chili. As far as dinners went, it was simple. Something he could prepare in his sleep. In fact, he was pretty sure he had, at some point. It was the perfect opportunity for his body to work on autopilot while his brain mulled things over. There was no chance of interruption, since Parker was out doing Parkery things, and Hardison was wrapped up in some WOW or COD or LOL. One of those stupid internet acronyms that meant nothing to Eliot. _

_ Eliot washed the peppers before setting them next to the cutting board. He planned to make a big vat of chili and freeze some for when he had to go out of town, and Parker and Hardison had to fend for themselves. As he began slicing and chopping, he considered the situation. _

_ Parker and Hardison were important to him, that was undeniable. He’d resisted the knowledge of their importance for ages after they started working together, always holding them at arm’s length. But slowly he began to realize that protecting them for the job had turned into protecting them for themselves. Hardison was a genius, an incredible spark of intelligence that the world would be so dull without. And Parker? Well, Parker was strange, but she had grown on Eliot. A bit like a fungus. But also a bit like a feral cat who trusted you for reasons you couldn’t quite figure out. And you didn’t want the feral cat hanging around in your backyard, but she kept coming back, so you started leaving tuna out for her and- _

_ Well, anyway. They were important. They mattered. And Eliot could no longer imagine what his life would be like without them. But the same could be said for Nate and Sophie. Right? _

_ No. Because Nate and Sophie didn’t need as much protection as Parker and Hardison did. It wasn’t just because of the age differences. There was something inherently vulnerable about both of them, something Eliot wanted to guard at all costs. _

_ Was that love? Eliot wasn’t stupid. He knew love came in all shapes and sizes and flavors. Familial love, platonic love, romantic love. Love that ignited and flamed out in a matter of hours. Love so deep and strong it was still there fifteen years after you left that person behind. Love built of countless hours of living in each other’s pockets and making food for them and keeping their unique selves safe from a world he knew to be cruel and unforgiving. _

_ Yes, Eliot loved his team. Loved them like family, sure. Nate was like a brother to him, Sophie like that really hot cousin you knew it’d be a bad idea to mess around with but that didn’t stop you from fantasizing. So Parker and Hardison should be like his younger siblings, right? He teased and messed with them, argued with them, threatened to beat up anyone who hurt them. That’s how an older brother acted. _

_ No, Eliot thought as he switched to dicing up onions. A year ago he might have considered them something like siblings. Before Hardison found out Eliot knew his way around a man’s body as well as a woman’s, and had lit up like he’d been given the passcodes to the U.S. Mint. Before Parker told him he was part of their pretzels-feelings thing. Those admissions had already gotten the wheels spinning in Eliot’s brain, and then the encounter a week ago had cemented it for him: he was attracted to both of them. _

_ Physical attraction was no big thing. Sex was just sex. No problem. Eliot had used it for a variety of reasons, from staving off loneliness to buying his ticket to freedom. Eliot generally didn’t actively want sex with men, but he knew how to use his hands or his mouth well enough to get himself out of a tight spot if necessary.  _

_ But there had been Wes. But there was Hardison. Two times when he had to admit the sex wasn’t out of necessity but...something more. _

_ Love? Yes, he loved Parker and Hardison. He had admitted as much, if only to himself. But the love could exist without the sex. The sex wasn’t necessary. _

_ But it sure was fun. _

_ Eliot tested the ideas out in his head as he prepped tomatoes.  _ I love them _. Okay, it checked out.  _ I want to have sex with them _. Yes, definitely true.  _ I want to make love to them _. Oh, no. _

_ No, no. _

_ His mind balked. He didn’t like how that felt at all. Sex was fine. Love was fine. But the two existing together? The last time he’d tried that, it hadn’t worked out. It had left him broken and angry. It had helped push him down the path that had led to his life being what it had been. And he didn’t want to head that way again. _

_ Hardison and Parker could - would - insist they would never do anything that would take him down that path again, but there was no guarantee. _

_ Well, actually, yes. There was a guarantee: him. He would never let  _ himself  _ go down there again. Ever. He’d rather put a bullet in his own brain than take another innocent life. _

_ So with that guarantee in mind, what reason did he have to hold back? Why not take the chance and see where this led? _

_ He examined the situation from every angle and found only one more hangup: Hardison. Hardison was young and eager and always,  _ always _ dove in over his head. He loved like he grifted: big and loud and without reservations. Eliot could hurt him far too easily, especially if it turned out the sex-with-love thing didn’t work for them the way they hoped it did. Eliot had never tried it with a man before, had never had that inclination. Sure, he’d loved Wes. But the love he’d felt had nothing to do with the sex they had. So, this would be new. Would it be worth breaking Hardison’s heart over an experiment? _

_ He’d have to make that clear, then. Lay it all out. Explain the risks and - _

_ And Eliot was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he didn’t register the footsteps, didn’t realize someone else was there until they were right on top of him and all his mind and body could understand was  _ intruder! threat! danger!  _ Eliot flipped the knife in his hand, grabbed the person, and shoved them against the wall, knife pressed into their throat as they - _

_ They whimpered. _

_ Eliot’s mind cleared, and his heart leapt into his throat as he realized it was Hardison he’d shoved against the wall so hard his head cracked against it, whose throat now bore a thin line of blood from where the knife edge had pressed in. Who was looking at Eliot like a man trying to gentle a wild animal, who whispered reassurances against the blade still threatening to cut his carotid, “It’s okay, it’s just me, it’s okay, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” _

_ Eliot backed away, his hand trembling; the knife clattered to the floor. “H-Hardison…” _

_ Hardison’s hand came up to his throat and he winced to feel the blood there. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you, man, I thought you heard me.” _

_ He should have. He should have heard him leave his computer and come stomping down the hall because Hardison was never subtle or quiet. He should have known the moment Hardison moved, because it was his  _ job _ to know. To never let his guard down. And he had failed, all because he’d been too wrapped up in his thoughts and feelings. _

_ Eliot swallowed, opened his mouth to speak, closed it when his throat seized up. He took in a shaky breath and tried again. “Your head.” _

_ Hardison’s hand left his throat and went to the back of his head instead. “Hurts,” he admitted. “But no lasting harm.” _

_ “Concussion?” He couldn’t seem to form more than one or two words at a time, couldn’t move forward to examine Hardison for himself. Couldn’t stop the shaking from spreading until he was trembling all over, terrified. At what he had done. _

_ Hardison started to shake his head, then blinked as he realized that was a bad idea. “Nah, I don’t think so. Are - are you okay, man?” _

_ The absolute insanity of the question, when Hardison was the one who could have been killed, boggled Eliot’s mind. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t force out the words to reassure Hardison that damnit, he was fine, of course, but Hardison wasn’t. Instead, he fumbled out his cell phone and shot a hurried, terribly misspelled text to Parker to get home and take care of Hardison ASAP before turning and storming out the door, ignoring Hardison’s increasingly worried demands for an answer. _

_ He didn’t go far, just to a little shop down the street from the brewpub, which he knew would have exactly what he needed. He found the item, slammed a twenty on the counter, didn’t bother waiting for change, and stomped back to the apartment. He was grateful to see Parker was already there, examining the cut on Hardison’s throat. They both froze when Eliot entered. He must’ve had That Look on his face, the one Tara claimed he knew about but he’d never given a thought to before. He must have been wearing it now, though, because he saw the fear flit through Hardison’s eyes, saw something in Parker shut down when she looked at him. _

_ He didn’t try to soften his gaze for them. He didn’t try to reassure them he was fine or this would be okay. He simply threw his purchase on the coffee table and left before it could dawn on them what it was and he would have to face their understanding of his coded declaration. _

_ He knew they would understand what the jazz record meant. Red light. Stop. The end. _

_ He was throwing in the towel. He wouldn’t be the one responsible for destroying them. _

\---

Parker and Hardison were silent for a moment when Eliot finished. If Hardison had been there in person, Eliot knew he and Parker would be exchanging one of their meaningful looks. Eliot avoided Parker’s eyes, staring down at his hands instead, which still shook with the memory.

“I still don’t understand,” Parker said softly, breaking the silence.

“Look, man, I know I messed up, but -” Hardison started to say.

“You -  _ you _ didn’t mess up,” Eliot interrupted fiercely. “Are you crazy? I could have killed you and you think  _ you  _ messed up?”

“I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I shoulda said something or made some noise or something,” Hardison said. “I mean, it didn’t even occur to me it would be possible. Not gonna lie, I was kinda proud.”

Eliot growled low in his throat. “You only snuck up on me ‘cause I was distracted. I never shoulda let my guard down. I left you vulnerable.”

“I can take care of myself,” Hardison countered.

“ _ I think you already proved you can’t. _ ”

“Well, I was hardly expecting to have to do so in my own home -”

“That’s just it,” Eliot hissed. “That’s just  _ fucking _ it, Hardison. I never know when someone from my past might come after me. I  _ always _ have to be on guard. Or what if one of our marks came after us? I have to be the first line of defense. I can’t be distracted trying to figure out if I’m interested in being in a threesome with my teammates. I can’t be caught like that. And you - you shouldn’t be scared of someone you’re supposed to be able to trust. No one should ever be scared of someone they’re in a relationship with.”

“I ain’t scared of you,” Hardison insisted.

“You were,” Eliot said. “I saw it in your eyes. When I came back. You were scared.”

“I was  _ scared _ that you were gonna go and do exactly what you did,” Hardison said. “I was scared you’d think I was too weak to be in a relationship with you or something, and you’d walk out. And that’s exactly what you did.”

“You aren’t weak,” Eliot said, because it was true. “Neither of you are.”

Parker took his hand in hers and folded their fingers together. “You aren’t, either,” she said. “You didn’t let your guard down in a moment of weakness. You just have to learn that we’ve got your back as much as you’ve got ours.”

Eliot shook his head. “I’m supposed to protect you.”

“And we’re supposed to protect you, too,” she said. “That’s what it means to be a team. Partners. Who scrubs the video footage of you beating the crap out of guards on every mission? Who gets you into the places you need to get into? I mean seriously, when was the last time you picked a lock or hacked a security video?”

Eliot couldn’t stop his hand from reaching up to her cheek; he wanted to, but he couldn’t. She grabbed his hand like a lifeline and held it in place. Her fingers were strong. “It’s been a while,” he admitted.

“We got your back, Eliot,” Hardison said. “And if I gotta wear a little kitty bell around you until you learn that, fine. But don’t give up on us just because of a tiny misunderstanding.”

“Misun- are you  _ kidding _ me?”

Eliot could hear the laughter in Hardison’s voice as he said, “There’s the fondly aggravated tone I’ve known and missed.”

Eliot dropped his hand away from Parker’s cheek and scooted to lean against the headboard. She came with him, never once releasing his other hand. She snuggled up against his side, and this time he let her. Might have even snuggled back. Just a little. “How is it different from the regular tone of aggravation I’ve been giving you for the last month?”

“It’s a very distinctive level of aggravation,” Hardison said,  _ that little shit. _

“Damnit, Hardison,” Eliot said, but there was no heat to it. He closed his eyes. His chest felt loose, in a way it hadn’t for weeks. He hated how  _ good _ they made him feel.

“So...are we okay?” Hardison asked. “Eliot? We good?”

“We’re okay,” Eliot said.

Parker perked up. “So we get to do the sex things again?”

Shit. “I don’t know,” Eliot admitted. “I never did figure out how I feel about...about y’all. And how I want to fit in with you.”

“We’re here to help you,” Hardison said, all endless patience and soft understanding. “One step at a time. See what feels right.”

Parker nodded her agreement against Eliot’s chest.

Eliot tightened his arm around her shoulders. “I… I don’t want to hurt you guys.”

“We’re stronger than you think,” Parker murmured. “I mean, we managed pretty well before you came along. And then you taught us to defend ourselves even better. You have to trust us.”

“I bet if we worked together, we could take you down,” Hardison added. “If we had to, that is. We wouldn’t want to.”

Well now, some of that was probably true. Not that they could take him down (if ten armed Russians couldn’t do it, if a warehouse full of Moreau’s men couldn’t do it, they didn’t stand a chance). He knew they were strong. But they were also undeniably fragile. How would he be able to forgive himself if he ended up breaking them irreparably?

Trust, they said. Trust them that they could handle what he dished out. Trust himself to never give them more than they could take.

It had been a long-ass time since he’d been able to trust someone so fully. He couldn’t just flip a switch. 

It would be worth it, though. If this worked.

“I...maybe,” he said at last.

“Maybe? Maybe we could take you down? Look, I’m -”

“No,” Eliot said before Hardison could make a fool of himself by trying to figure out how he and Parker’s combined efforts could do what a hundred men and women over the course of fifteen years hadn’t managed. “Maybe...maybe we can… you know.”

“Nope, you need to say it out loud,” Parker said. “That way we’re all on the same page.”

Eliot rolled his eyes. “Maybe we can try stepping things up a little. See where it takes us. Start small and build from there.”

Hardison let out an undignified whoop on his end of the comm. Parker grinned and flitted upwards to press a kiss to the corner of Eliot’s mouth.

“Hey,” Eliot protested, shying away. “I only said maybe.”

“From you, that’s as good as a yes,” Hardison said.

“Bullshit,” Eliot said, unwilling to admit it was probably true. He unwound his arm from around Parker. “We can discuss it again when we’re all in the same room together and I’m not locked away in an institution. Now, will you leave me alone to get some sleep?”

“Nope,” Parker said, burrowing under the covers. It was a very narrow bed, but the two of them could fit if they pressed in close. Apparently that was what she had in mind because she tugged on his hand until he joined her. “I’ll leave before the morning meditation starts.” She tilted her head at him, gave him that look of pure Parkerness that he still didn’t quite know how to combat. “Please?”

Eliot sighed, defeated. “Fine.” He knew she would keep her promise, just as he knew he would have a hard time sleeping until the meditation bell sounded.

“Nighty-night, mama,” Hardison said, blowing smacking kisses over the comm. “Sleep tight, Eliot.”

“‘Night, Hardison,” Eliot growled. The comm went silent. “G’night, sweetheart,” he murmured to Parker.

Instead of relaxing, however, Parker stiffened up. He could just make out her face in the moonlight, all scrunched up with distaste.

“What?”

“I don’t like it when you call me sweetheart,” she said.

This was news to Eliot. “You didn’t mind a few weeks ago,” he pointed out.

Parker shrugged. “I didn’t think I minded, but I was thinking about it and that’s what you call all the girls you flirt with. I don’t think I’m very much like them. I’m just Parker.”

“Hardison calls you ‘mama’ and ‘baby,’” Eliot said.

“Yeah, but that’s Hardison. He calls you ‘baby,’ too.” Parker considered something. “Maybe he’ll start calling you papa now that you’re ours.”

Now it was Eliot’s turn to make a face. “I...doubt it,” he said. Papa was just one step too close to “daddy” and that was just… no. Not gonna happen. “I won’t call you sweetheart if you don’t like it.”

“It doesn’t really fit me,” Parker said.

That it didn’t. She had some sweetness to her, and she certainly had a big heart, but she was too flighty, too ethereal for it to be a suitable pet name. He looked at her face, bathed in the silvery moonlight. “Moonbeam,” he murmured, not intending to speak it out loud, but once he said it, he realized it was perfect.

Parker cocked her head to the side. “Moonbeam,” she repeated, testing it out. A smile spread over her moon-bleached features. “I like it.”

“Moonbeam,” he agreed, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Goodnight, Moonbeam.”

“Goodnight, Eliot.”

\---

T-Plus-7 Days

_ Excerpt of official transcript from Patient E.S.’s sixth one-on-one therapy session in the Pacific Northwest Addiction and Recovery Institute, Anger Counselling and Management Center. _

**15:08 DL:** So, if we’re not talking about food, would you mind enlightening me what we’re actually talking about?

**15:30 ES:** No.

**15:32 DL:** Oookay. Well. I have to admit I’m not much of a cook. Do you like cooking?

**15:45 ES:** Yeah, it, uh, I find it relaxing.

**15:51 DL:** That’s good. Do you always follow recipes when you cook?

**16:03 ES:** No, not always. When I’m first trying something out, I might look at what other people have done and sort of go off of that.

**16:29 DL:** But you improvise?

**16:33 ES:** Yeah.

**16:34 DL:** And what happens when you try something and it doesn’t work out?

**16:46 ES:** I throw it out.

**16:55 DL:** No harm, no foul?

**17:01 ES:** Sure.

**17:03 DL:** So, in this pretzel-thing that’s not really about food, what would happen if the cayenne does end up, er, overwhelming the other ingredients?

**17:52 ES:** Someone could get hurt. I mean,  _ I _ could hurt someone. Badly.

**18:10 DL:** I can see why that would make you hesitate. How likely is that to happen?

**18:49 ES:** What?

**18:51 DL:** Just, on a scale of one to ten, how likely is it that you will hurt someone in this pretzel scenario?

**19:32 ES:** If I’m in control of myself, zero. But the more I let my guard down, the less control I have. Then it goes up.

**19:58 DL:** How high?

**20:00 ES:** Eight.

**20:02 DL:** That’s a big risk.

**20:08 ES:** Yeah.

**20:10 DL:** How do the other ingredients feel about this level of risk?

**21:05 ES:** I...uh, haven’t asked them.

**21:12 DL:** Why not?

**21:20 ES:** I know them. I know what they’ll say.

**21:36 DL:** Do you? Well, I admit I don’t have the full picture, but it seems a little one-sided that the cayenne gets to make decisions for the entire recipe, when recipes are supposed to be all about the ingredients working together to achieve harmony. When you’re experimenting with food, do you just dump the whole lot in? Or do you add a little bit at a time to see how it works?

**23:56 ES:** A little.

**24:00 DL:** Hm. Something to think about.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Internalized homophobia, canon-alluded violence (including murder)

T-Plus-8 Days

_ Excerpt of official transcript from Patient E.S.’s seventh one-on-one therapy session in the Pacific Northwest Addiction and Recovery Institute, Anger Counselling and Management Center. _

**00:05 DL:** Good morning, Ethan. Sleep well?

**00:26 ES:** Not particularly. Why?

**00:45 DL:** You look more relaxed than I’ve ever seen you so far.

**00:59 ES:** I, uh, I had good dreams.

**01:05 DL:** Yeah?

**01:14 ES:** Yeah about Dellia and the - the thing about the pretzels. I think you’re right. I just gotta add the cayenne slowly and see what comes of it.

**01:38 DL:** I still have no idea what this metaphor is, but I gotta tell you I went home last night and ate an entire bag of chocolate covered pretzels. My wife thought I’d gone insane.

**02:01 [both laugh]**

\---

“So. Sergeant Spencer. What do you plan to do next?”

Eliot had signed a five-year contract with the Army, and before he knows it, that time is drawing to a close. It’s time to consider his options. Vance gives him a searching look across the desk that separates them.

In the time that Eliot has been working for Vance, he has risen quickly through the ranks. He has proven himself time and time again, protecting his team and getting them out of tight spots. He knows he could re-up his contract and keep rising. Could make the jump to commissioned officer, rise to the same level as Vance.

But ultimately, those titles mean very little to him. Being a Sergeant doesn’t make him any better of a shot; it just means he’s had more practice. Similarly, being a General wouldn’t make him any better at commanding his team, it would just mean more people and more operations to take care of, more headaches. That’s not really his style. He does better calling the shots from the ground, among his men, rather than from behind his desk. While it’s true Vance goes on missions when he can, the vast majority of the time, he’s stuck hidden away from the action. And Eliot can see how that grates on him.

No, Eliot does not want to end up a desk jockey. That’s a hard pass on extending his military career.

So what does that leave him, then?

“I haven’t given it much thought, sir,” Eliot lies with a shrug.

Vance grunts and pulls a bottle and a couple of shot glasses out of one of the desk drawers. It’s not quite five o’clock, but who cares? He pours them each a shot of neat whiskey. It’s pretty good stuff, for what a guy can get while deployed in the middle of a goddamn desert. Of course, a Colonel can get pretty much whatever they want, if they know the right palms to grease. Eliot takes a sip and sits back in his chair.

“The Army still has a lot to offer you, Spencer,” Vance says.

Eliot shakes his head. “Not really, sir.”

Vance considers this. “Hm. It’d be a shame to see a man of your talents go to waste.”

“I don’t plan to let anything go to waste,” Eliot says. He’s met certain characters over the years, and he knows that with the right connections, he’ll stay in business. And Vance, whether he knows it or not, has been a key figure in Eliot coming to that realization.

“I’m glad to hear it. When is your contract officially up?” Vance asks.

“Six weeks.”

Vance drains the last of his shot and pours himself another one. Eliot isn’t far behind. “Six weeks. That’s enough time to put together one more mission. Something I need you to handle. I can’t trust most of these new jackanapes. It’s gonna be awhile before I find someone good enough to replace you. Hell, I still haven’t found a new Syzmanski, and it’s been two years.”

“Just me, sir?” Eliot asks. He likes solo missions because then he can work at his own pace, which is usually a lot faster than if he has to coordinate with half a dozen other people.

“You and Keats,” Vance clarifies. “I know his contract ends at the same time as yours, and he’s already made it clear he won’t be sticking around. I need to make the most of both of your talents while I still can.”

Eliot’s heart leaps; the only thing better than a solo mission is getting to do one more with Wes. They’ve become so perfectly in sync over the years that they work almost as one person, intuiting each other’s moves with terrifying accuracy. It’s no surprise to hear Vance reveal that Wes won’t be re-enlisting either; Wes has always performed exactly as a well-trained soldier should, but it has been evident over the last five years he has no interest in excelling the way Eliot has. He remains a few ranks lower than Eliot, content to stay on fewer radars. It sometimes amazes Eliot that Vance ever got his hands on Wes at all, or realized his potential.

“Good idea, sir,” Eliot says, face impassive even as he mulls this over.

They share one more friendly drink before Eliot leaves to meet with some buddies in the mess hall.

\---

Two weeks of unexciting, menial patrols and duties follow that exchange. Eliot can feel the clock ticking down, and while he knows Vance needs time to put together an operation and sort out the details, he’s worried that his contract will be up before the mission can come together.

Eliot is sleeping soundly one night when a noise jolts him awake. He comes up swinging, prepared to take down whoever thought they could sneak into his single-occupant room. A pair of strong hands grab his wrists in the dark and hold him down. It takes Eliot a moment to register the soft voice telling him to calm down.

“Wes?” He stops fighting.

“Yeah.” 

The hands loosen their hold, and Eliot is able to struggle into a sitting position. He can just barely make out Wes’ silhouette in the darkness, perched on the edge of the bed a little ways down.

“What are you doing here?”

“Just arrived,” Wes whispers. “Vance called me in for a mission. He said you’d be part of it, too.”

“Yeah. Yeah, just the two of us. One last time before our contracts are up,” Eliot says. His eyes have nearly adjusted to the darkness, so he can just make out Wes nodding.

“It seems fitting,” Wes says. “We started this whole thing together, we might as well finish it off together.”

Wes’ body is twisted around to face Eliot, and his hand is pressing into the bed to support himself. It’s just a couple inches away from Eliot’s leg, and if Eliot were to shift position ever-so-slightly, they would be in contact with each other and maybe Wes might get the idea to do that other thing they start up and finish off together.

“Where are your quarters?” Eliot asks instead.

“I’ll only be here for a couple of days before Vance briefs us and sends us off, so I’m in general barracks,” Wes says. His hand shifts a fraction of a inch towards Eliot.

“Shouldn’t you be there, then?” Eliot’s leg moves towards Wes’ hand, making it clear he doesn’t want Wes to be anywhere but right here.

“I didn’t want to wait until morning to see you,” Wes admits because they have no secrets between them, even when this particular admission knocks the breath clean out of Eliot’s lungs. 

It occurs to Eliot for the first time that maybe these occasional secret meetings have long since become something more than just two friends casually helping each other out. That realization makes Eliot’s jaw clench and his heart pound, but he doesn’t draw back. He lets his knee knock against Wes’ hand, helpless to resist his magnetic draw.

After they refamiliarize themselves with each other’s bodies, they lie together, crammed onto the narrow bed. Eliot’s heart is calming down, easing into drowsiness. Wes should leave soon, he knows, but right now he’s too relaxed to suggest it. Wes’ eyes are fluttering closed. Eliot watches him.

“You’re staring,” Wes says, a smile curling around the edges of his lips.

“Just thinking.”

“‘Bout what?”

Eliot shifts a little. “What happens next. After the Army, I mean.”

Wes’ hand finds Eliot’s hip in the darkness and curls around his old bullet wound. “You going home?”

“Hell no,” Eliot says vehemently. “There’s nothing left for me there.”

“Where do you suppose you’ll go, then?” Wes asks.

“I guess it’ll depend on where I can find work.”

“What kind of work?”

Eliot can feel Wes circling around something, even though the questions themselves are perfectly benign. He shifts, a little uneasy. “I dunno. I think Vance might be able to connect me with some freelancers. Get out of the Middle East for a while. I wanna stick with what I’m good at.”

Wes’ eyes bore into him through the darkness. “That’s not the only kind of work you’re good at, Spence,” he says.

Eliot shrugs. He supposes Wes is right, but the alternatives hold little appeal. “Like what?”

The hand on Eliot’s hip traces small circles around the scar tissue. Suddenly Wes surges forward and presses his lips to Eliot’s.

Eliot freezes, unsure how to respond. His gut instinct is to shove Wes away, but he can’t bring himself to do that. Although their mouths have been all over each other’s bodies, they’ve never breached this barrier before. They’ve never kissed. Eliot stays completely still until, a moment later, Wes pulls back.

“What if… you came home with me?”

It takes Eliot’s brain a moment to catch up with his ears. “ _ What _ ?”

“As - as buddies,” Wes amends quickly. “Just until you’re on your feet. There’s a construction company back home that always needs new hands, and you’re pretty good at that.”

Eliot shakes his head. “No.  _ Hell _ no. That’s just the same as going back to my hometown and taking over my father’s business.”

“It’s not exactly the same thing,” Wes says.

But it is. How can Wes not see that? It’s still going to a small town in Bumfuck, America and settling down and setting up a career that will get him a wife and kids and a white picket fence. All the things that Eliot had thrown out the window when he and Aimee broke up. Or is there a different alternative? Where Eliot  _ doesn’t _ get married and get all that American Dream shit? Where does Wes see himself fitting in  _ there _ ? The two of them… No. Absolutely not. That shit might seem okay - desirous, even - here where the options are limited and they can hide away. But over there? With the prying eyes of neighbors and friends? It makes Eliot feel sick. This  _ thing _ was only out of necessity, he reminds himself. He ain’t gay.

Something of his thoughts must show in his silence because Wes swallows and nods. “Yeah. Of course. Shit, Spence.” He laughs, a weak, strained sound. “I just meant…” He trails off.

“Yeah,” Eliot says, voice rough. “I knew what you meant. It’s just not for me. I wanna...I wanna see more of the world. You know?”

“Yeah.”

They’re silent for a moment before Wes shifts. “I should get going,” he murmurs, avoiding Eliot’s eyes as he fishes his boxers out of the tousled covers.

Eliot doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, as Wes dresses. It doesn’t take long. Soon, Wes is completely covered up while Eliot is still naked. He should probably cover himself up with something - the sheet, at least - but he doesn’t move. Wes regards him for a moment. “I’m gonna…” He gestures at the door.

“Okay,” Eliot says. Wes starts to move. “Wait.”

Wes pauses. Eliot kneels up on his bed. This position doesn’t give him any extra height, so Wes still towers over him. Scowling, Eliot pulls Wes in once more, wrapping his right hand around the back of Wes’ head to hold him steady. He brings their lips together.

The kiss is better this time, with them both participating. Wes’ lips feel dry, rough. Hard. Not at all like kissing a girl’s soft lips, sticky with gloss or lipstick. It feels wrong, makes Eliot’s stomach twist.

Wes must feel it, too, because he pulls away first, shies away from Eliot’s hand. He flashes a doleful smile at Eliot.

“‘Bye, Spence.”

“See you later,” Eliot says, settling back down.

Wes pauses, like he’s contemplating something. “Yeah,” he says at last. “See you later.”

He leaves Eliot to his confused and unhappy thoughts.

\---

_ Two days later, Eliot is summoned to Vance’s office for the briefing, and Wes isn’t there. Instead there’s a bright-eyed, easy-smiling young private, who Vance introduces as Private Shelton Waters. The kid pops a cocky salute and tells Eliot to call him Shelley. Vance tells Eliot later, after the briefing, that he needs him to train up Shelley. He’s young but bright. Very skilled. Eliot will be the perfect teacher to hone his talents. _

_ “What happened to Keats?” Eliot can’t help but ask, ignoring his heart sinking into his stomach. _

_ “Needed him somewhere else,” Vance says, and that’s that. _

_ A few weeks later, when Eliot is officially discharged, Vance slides him a card with just a number on it. “Give them a call, tell them I gave you the number. They’ll give you work.” _

_ Eliot hasn’t heard a word from Wes since he disappeared in the middle of the night. He knows where Wes’ hometown is, knows that’s where Wes must be heading now. Knows he could probably go there, find Wes, and still take him up on his offer. It’d be like the last few weeks never happened. _

_ He doesn’t. He takes the card and calls the number on it the next day. The voice on the other end is suspicious until he mentions Vance’s name. Then the whole tune changes. _

_ “I got something for you,” the man says. “How soon can you get to Thailand?” _

\---

The number belongs to a PMC. Eliot had known there was work out in the world for people like him; he just didn’t realize there were entire organizations devoted to matching operatives with the people in need.

Just like when he was in the military, Eliot excels at the assignments he is given. He works extractions and retrieval jobs to start off with. The things he is sent to retrieve are well-guarded, very valuable. They are things that have been stolen from their original owners, or things that are needing to be stolen. Eliot doesn’t see much difference between the two. Some of the things he’s sent to retrieve could buy his entire hometown with plenty left over. It doesn’t really matter to Eliot if the person holding that item is a wealthy oil baron or a minor member of the Saudi royal family. What does matter to him is who is willing to pay more to have the item.

Soon, his name begins to spread. Clients who are impressed with his work pass his name along to their associates. Once or twice, then more and more often, the new clients decide to go straight to the source, cut out the PMC middle men. That means more money in Eliot’s pocket, more freedom to operate at his own pace, be more choosy about which jobs to take.

The morality or legality of what he’s asked to do never really weighs on him. Nor does he think it should. It’s not the least bit different from what he used to do in the Army; the only difference is these jobs aren’t state-sanctioned. So what does it matter if it’s a Major General commanding him to steal something from an enemy, or a civilian paying him to steal something from a person who isn’t supposed to have the item in the first place?

The money is good. Better than what Eliot made in a month serving his country. He keeps a hefty amount on hand for emergencies; the rest gets squirrelled away in secret accounts. He thinks about sending some of it back home to Auntie Mel and Uncle Randy, but that feels wrong. He knows it’s dirty money, and while it’s good enough for the likes of him, the thought of his folks touching it makes his stomach churn. So he holds onto it, thinks about ways he can get it into their hands without the dirt touching them.

He makes sure that Vance can always reach him at a moment’s notice, just in case he has a special job for Eliot. He calls upon Eliot’s services every once in a while, when he needs someone who can operate a little more freely, who isn’t quite beholden to the letter of the law or the Commander in Chief.

It’s dangerous, Eliot knows, to have a permanent connection like that. Having someone who can contact him at any time means that someone with the right resources can figure out where to find him, even when he’s laying low. So it’s no surprise when a rough-looking thug shows up at Eliot’s dingy apartment in Tbilisi, where he’s staying for a couple of weeks between jobs. Eliot peers out at the thug from the apartment’s sole window, eyeing him up. He’s clearly armed and here on a mission. Eliot sizes him up, taking note of possible weaknesses and deciding the best way to disarm him if things get ugly, before answering the door.

“My boss wants to see you,” the thug says by way of greeting. His English is thickly accented - not Georgian, as one might expect, but something else. Turkish, Eliot thinks.

“Do I want to see your boss?” Eliot asks.

The man shrugs. “Boss has a job. You want the job, you come see boss.”

“Who’s your boss?”

The man raises an eyebrow. “You ask many questions for employee.”

“Potential employee,” Eliot corrects him. “I haven’t said if I want the job yet or not.”

The Army taught Eliot to accept everything without questioning any of it, but that’s not how he has to operate anymore. This is the first time he’s been approached like this for a job; most of his offers come through phone calls or clandestine meetings. Eliot wants to know as much information as possible before he heads into what smells very much like a trap.

“Want to know boss? Come see boss,” the thug says, like it doesn’t matter to him either way. He turns and walks away, not bothering to check if Eliot is following.

Eliot’s just curious enough that he decides to throw caution to the wind. Besides, he has a feeling if he doesn’t go to meet this guy’s employer now, he’ll be facing him again later under less savory circumstances.

When Eliot climbs into the passenger side of the thug’s car, he makes sure his jacket moves in just such a way that the thug catches a glimpse of the gun snug in its holster. The thug rolls his eyes and mumbles something in Turkish about a “big, tough guy.”

“Like you’re not carrying,” Eliot responds in the same language, nodding at the telltale bulge at the small of his back.

“Me, I do not show off,” the man says indifferently. “You show off.”

“Ain’t showin’ off,” Eliot says. “Just warning.”

The man grunts and starts the car. They’re silent as he navigates the narrow streets of Tbilisi. The sun is going down, casting long shadows. They’re in a rundown part of the city, buildings held together with string and tinfoil, it seems like. People turn to gawk and glare as the nice car slides past them, honking at anyone too slow to get out of the way. They make their way through the city to the nicer side of town. Then further, to where large houses start to sprawl.

They pull into a gated driveway, to the front steps of an elegant house, designed in the local style. Eliot follows the thug inside, up the stairs. He barely looks at the fancy marble tiles or the large artworks that seem to hang on every wall. He has no use for such ostentation; all it means to him is that this thug’s boss is rich, so Eliot should be able to negotiate a decent price for his services.

The thug knocks on a door and pushes it open when the voice inside instructs him to. He doesn’t walk through, however, simply gestures for Eliot to go on ahead. Eliot gives him one last suspicious glare before obeying.

The room is spacious and dark, lit only by a single desk lamp. Eliot focuses past the halo of light, which is perfectly positioned to keep his eyes from adjusting if he were to look directly at the man sitting at the desk. He can just make out a dark figure in what looks like a finely-made suit.

“Welcome, Mr. Spencer,” the man says. His accent is also Turkish, but with a British tinge. Probably educated at Oxford or Cambridge or some other posh school. “Might I offer you a drink?”

“No, thanks,” Eliot says. There is a chair on Eliot’s side that he is clearly meant to sit in. He pointedly stands next to it instead. He still can’t make out the man’s face, so he focuses on other details instead. The man’s hands rest, folded neatly, on top of the desk. The cuffs are tailored, and he’s wearing cufflinks. A ring with a familiar design sits on his right index finger. Eliot wracks his brain, trying to remember where he’s seen that particular insignia before.

“You’re a cautious man,” the figure says. He lifts his own glass of alcohol to his lips and takes a sip. 

“Seems like common sense to me,” Eliot rejoins. “I don’t take drinks from strangers.”

“I am no stranger,” the man says. “Perhaps we have not met face to face yet, but you know me. At least, you know my belongings. One belonging in particular, which you took from me.”

Eliot frowns. A Turkish man he took something from? No, that insignia isn’t Turkish. It’s Yemeni. But the man’s accent is decidedly Turkish, and here he is in Georgia. Given the tumultuous connections between Turkey and Yemen, that combination is exceedingly rare. That can only point to one man Eliot has recently retrieved something from:

Effendi Utkan Sonku.

“You remember,” Sonku says, sounding pleased.

There had been a few complications, but nothing Eliot couldn’t handle. The item was a certain priceless antiquity, a highly coveted piece of jewelry with a sordid history. “I remember,” he confirms. “You’re wanting your bracelet back? To be honest, I don’t think it matches your outfit.”

Sonku laughs. “I don’t care about the jewelry,” he says, leaning forward so that his face is no longer hidden. “You took something else from me. Someone. A man. Do you remember him?”

Eliot remembers the guard, a persistent fellow who would not stay down until Eliot finally dropped him with a powerful punch to the throat that left him wheezing and choking. “Yes.”

“That man was my best hired gun, and you dropped him like he was nothing.” Sonku’s pleasant voice drops to steel. “I saw the security footage. Broken kneecap, dislocated shoulder, and a severely damaged trachea. And you walked away without a scratch.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” Eliot had taken his share of hits, leaving him with deep bruises and a sore wrist. Nothing as bad as what the guard had taken, though. The wrist had returned to normal within a week.

“Why not just shoot him?” Sonku asks, nodding at Eliot’s gun.

Eliot shrugs. “Woulda made too much noise. I was trying to stay quiet.”

“Can you use it?”

Eliot glares at him. “I wouldn’t carry it if I didn’t know how to use it.”

Sonku is unimpressed by his annoyance. “Many people carry one without knowing how to use it. They think just the sight of it will keep them out of trouble.”

“Are you looking for a demonstration?”

Sonku considers him for a long moment. “No,” he says at last. “I’ve researched your military career. It speaks for itself.”

Eliot relaxes. “What are you looking for, then?”

“I had a job for my man that you took out of commission,” Sonku says. “There is someone I need out of my way. Dogan, the man who escorted you here tonight, he is a good chauffeur but when it comes to certain tasks, he lacks...style. I like a man with style. You, Mr. Spencer - you seem to have style.”

Eliot ignores what he supposes is meant to be a compliment. “What do you mean, you need this guy out of your way?”

“Must I spell it out for you?”

Eliot smiles tightly. “I like to be clear about the parameters of the job.”

Sonku sighs. “I want him eliminated.”

“Eliminated...with style.” Eliot raises an eyebrow.

“I do not want it connected back to me,” Sonku says. “I don’t care how you do it, but he has been a thorn in my side for a very long time, and he is becoming dangerous to me. You will be well compensated, of course.”

“Who is he?” Eliot asks.

“A minor Yemeni official. He’s involved in certain imports and exports, and he’s been making it difficult for me to move some merchandise.”

Outwardly, Eliot gives no sign of what he’s thinking. Inwardly, he is conflicted. He’s killed men before, of course. But that was because they wanted to kill him or his men - or because Eliot’s team was making a pre-emptive strike against someone who wanted to hurt them or his country. This Yemeni official has no idea Eliot even exists, let alone could hurt him. He’s probably only doing his job, and Sonku wants him dead for it. Wants Eliot to kill him for it.

If Eliot refuses, Sonku will find someone else. After all, he’s only offering the job to Eliot because he took out Sonku’s usual hitman. Someone else could do it, but they could botch the job or make the man suffer needlessly. At least if Eliot does it, he can ensure the Yemeni will die painlessly, with little fuss, minimal mess.

And if he refuses, Sonku will have to make sure Eliot doesn’t rat him out. Will probably send the same hitman he hires for the Yemeni after Eliot. And Eliot will have to defend himself, by any means necessary.

One dead man...or two?

Sonku slides a slip of paper with a large number written on it across the desk. “You’ll get part of it up front to take care of travel and other expenses. The rest when you finish the job.”

Eliot pretends like he is considering the value, but he’s already made up his mind.

He accepts.

\---

Two weeks later, Eliot shakes hands with a minor Yemeni official who works in imports and exports. When their hands connect, the official jumps a little. Eliot laughs it off, apologizes for the electric shock. “All this dry air,” he explains. The official laughs and thinks nothing more of it.

The next day, the official is dead. It appears to be poisoning, but they can’t figure out how the poison got into his system. They don’t see the tiny pinprick where Eliot slipped the needle into the official’s finger when they shook hands. He goes back to Georgia to collect his money.

A man is dead and the world didn’t come crashing down around Eliot. There are no riots, no screams of anguish, no accusatory stares from random passersby that tell Eliot “I know what you did. I know who you are.” Nothing. He feels a twinge of remorse when he sees the man’s widow on television, but he tamps it down. What’s done is done. What is one man, one woman, out of five billion people? He wasn’t Martin Luther King, Jr. or Ghandi or a world leader. Just some guy. 

The next time he is approached with a hit, he doesn’t hesitate.

\---

Some months - and several more jobs - later, Eliot gets a call from Vance, who simply gives him a series of NATO words, then hangs up. Eliot uses those words to decipher an alpha-numeric code of their own devising. It gives him a phone number. This is hardly unusual, since Vance regularly passes clients along to Eliot. What  _ is _ unusual is that the phone number’s country code is American. So far, Eliot has worked almost exclusively overseas. Well, it should hardly surprise him that there are corrupt Americans as well as foreigners.

Eliot dials the number from a hotel phone on the outskirts of a large Italian city. He doesn’t recognize the area code. A sleepy male voice answers. “Hello?”

“You’ve got something for me,” Eliot says.

“Wha - no, I don’t…” The voice sounds confused. Yet familiar. Eliot frowns. “I think you have the wrong number.”

There’s no way he got the code from Vance wrong. “I was given this number by a mutual acquaintance,” Eliot growls. 

There’s a pause long enough that Eliot thinks the other man may have hung up. Then, “Spence?”

Eliot’s heart freezes for a second, then jolts back into action. “ _ Wes _ ?”

“Yeah, I - Jesus, Spence, you scared the shit outta me. Didn’t Vance tell you I was trying to get in contact with you?” Wes demands. Eliot can hear springs creaking on the other end of the line. Wes must be in bed; a quick glance at the hotel clock confirms that it’s nearly half past two back home.

“No, he only gave me your number,” Eliot says. He doesn’t explain how dangerous it could be for Vance to speak any of their names over an unsecure line. Wes probably doesn’t know what Eliot’s been up to, doesn’t know the dark depths of the criminal world he’s descended to. Doesn’t know that Wes could have put them both in danger by speaking Eliot’s name out loud. “Are you in trouble?”

“Trou- no! No, not at all.” Wes sounds concerned now, much more awake. “Are  _ you _ in trouble?”

Eliot skirts past that. “What do you need?”

Wes huffs an unamused laugh. “I have some news for you. And a favor to ask. And...well, I need to apologize.”

“For what?”

“I -” Wes sighs. “Actually, I’d really prefer not to do this over the phone. Where are you? How soon can you come to the States?”

“I can be there tomorrow,” Eliot says immediately. “Where are you now?”

“Indianapolis. We can meet -”

“Don’t tell me now,” Eliot interrupts. “I’ll make arrangements. I’ll have Vance contact you with a meeting location.”

“Spence.” Wes sounds alarmed now. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Vance will be in contact soon,” Eliot says, and hangs up. He begins dialling, first to make flight arrangements, then to Vance to give him the encoded message of where he wants to meet Wes. It’s a nice public place, where there will be plenty of people around should anyone try to follow Eliot there.

He doesn’t think he currently has anyone on his tail, but he’s learned to be more and more cautious as the months have passed.

\---

The high-end burger joint in downtown Indianapolis is decently crowded at 1 PM on a Saturday. Eliot had done his research, so he knows that this is a popular place, if a little pricey. He doesn’t mind the expense, but the burgers damn well better be worth it.

He gets there early and chooses a corner where he can place his back against two walls and see every entrance into the joint. He’s not carrying a gun, but he does have three knives strapped to various body parts, as well a length of rope tucked away that could be used as a garrote just in case. He notes the narrow parts of the restaurant where he could force multiple enemies to come at him one on one if he needs to, and he takes stock of the danger points - especially the grill, the deep fryer, and the knife station. Between that and the lunchtime crowd, he feels relatively confident that he could best any enemy attack that might come for him. 

_ This is just lunch _ , he reminds himself for what feels like the hundredth time.  _ Not an ambush. Not a job. No one is going to storm a burger joint in Indianapolis _ .

Still, he takes every possible precaution.

Eliot spots Wes immediately when he arrives. It’s been three years since they last saw each other, and Wes looks both completely different and exactly the same. Wes’ eyes scan the restaurant, so Eliot stands and waves him over, ignoring the way his stomach lurches.

Wes comes to Eliot, grinning. They clasp hands for a brief moment before Wes pulls him in for a strong hug. Eliot stiffens, pulls back. And suddenly it’s awkward. Wes’ smile fades and he glances over at the counter.

“Have you already ordered?”

“No, I was waiting for you,” Eliot says.

Wes pulls out his wallet. “What do you want? I’ll go get it while you keep our table.”

Eliot waves him off. “No, I’ve got money. This is on me.”

“I asked you to come all the way to Indy,” Wes insists. “It’s the least I can do.”

“Yeah, but I chose the restaurant,” Eliot argues. “C’mon, man, just tell me what you want and I’ll go order it.”

Wes looks like he might want to argue some more, but he finally relents and gives Eliot his order. It’s weird to be standing in line and hearing only English conversations around him. He puts in their orders, pays, and heads back to Wes with their number placard so the server will know where to find them.

Wes smiles at him when he sits down. “How’ve you been, Spence?”

“Good,” Eliot says. “Real good. You?”

Wes beams. “It’s been amazing. It was a little rocky when I first came home. I, uh, I struggled a little. With nightmares and stuff. The local VA helped as much as they could. It wasn’t a lot but it was something. But then I needed a change of scenery so I moved up here. It’s been really good for me. I got an electrician certification and got a pretty good job now.”

Eliot grins at him. “That’s awesome, Wes,” he says and he’s a little startled to realize he truly feels that way. Something in the pit of his stomach loosens. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Wes says. A blush creeps over his cheeks. “And, uh, there’s something else I want to tell you. I - I met someone.”

The thing in his stomach tightens again. “Someone?” he repeats.

“A girl - a woman,” Wes corrects himself. “Mina. I met her while I was doing some electric work at Butler University. She’s studying Sociology there.” His face glows as he talks about her, and Eliot can see where this is going. “She’s going to get her PhD eventually. I - she’s amazing. You’re going to love her.”

Eliot blinks. “You want me to meet her?”

Wes nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, man. I - well, I asked her to marry me. And she said yes.” There’s a slightly wondrous look on his face like he can’t believe she agreed to spend the rest of her life with him. “And I know I probably have no right to ask, after what I did, but...I was wondering if you would be in my wedding party.”

Eliot’s brain needs a moment to catch up. “What do you mean, what you did?”

Wes’ joy fades a little. Their food arrives at that moment, but neither man digs in. Wes picks up a fry and toys with it rather than eating it. “Disappearing in the middle of the night. After we -”

“I know,” Eliot cuts him off. “Vance said he needed you somewhere else. It’s hardly your fault.”

“Actually, it is,” Wes says. He won’t meet Eliot’s eyes. “I asked not to be part of that last mission. Told him I was having some back pain or something. I’m not entirely sure he believed me, but he gave me some light guard duty instead.”

Eliot can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Why?”

Wes shrugs. “I don’t know. I was upset.”

“ _ Why? _ ” That doesn’t make any sense. Eliot can feel his anger rising, threatening to spill out. “Damnit, Wes,” he hisses.

“Look.” Wes finally meets his eyes again, and his look is steely. He has never been intimidated by Eliot before, and he certainly won’t be now. “I was being young and stupid, maybe. You were - are - my best friend, and you’ve saved my life more times than I can count. And I’ve always,  _ always _ got your back, too. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for that last mission. I know you could’ve used me. We - we worked well together.”

Eliot shrugs. “I had a new kid with me. Annoying, but bright. He did well.”

“I’m glad,” Wes says. “Doesn’t mean it wouldn’t have gone better with us. But that’s not what I’m trying to say.” He thinks for a moment, popping a fry into his mouth and chewing slowly. “What I want to say is that I - I think I was scared to leave the Army. It’s all we had known for five years. And even though I wasn’t entirely happy there, at least it was something familiar. And I think part of me thought that if you came home with me, it wouldn’t be quite as unknown. You know? Like, we always could face anything together. Even civilian life.”

It’s Eliot’s turn to avoid eye contact now. “I thought you were askin’ something else. Something I wasn’t…couldn’t give you.”

“I don’t think I really understood it at the time,” Wes says. “I knew I wanted you to stick with me. So I wasn’t really clear on it. That’s on me. I’m really sorry if I did or said anything that made you uncomfortable. I didn’t - I’m not… Mina is my heart and soul now. I love her more than I’ve loved anyone or anything, ever. I never would have met her if we’d stuck together.” He shoots Eliot a wry smile. “So actually I should be saying thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Eliot says, returning his smile. Then it fades. “But I can’t be part of your wedding.”

Wes’ shoulders slump. “Why not?”

“It’s not that I ain’t happy for you,” Eliot reassures him. “I am. I bet Mina is wonderful. But…” He trails off, not sure what or how much he should say. “I’m not a safe person to be around anymore.”

Wes doesn’t scoff or shoot Eliot down, but he does frown. “You wouldn’t hurt us,” he says with such confidence.

“No,” Eliot agrees. “I would never.” (He’s almost certain it’s true.) “But I -” He looks away, watches the workers for a few seconds. They look impossibly young. “I’ve been working for a PMC. Some of the work I do has made me something of a target. If I brought any bad attention to you and Mina, I’d never be able to forgive myself.”

Eliot can see that Wes wants to protest, maybe tell him he’s being paranoid. But he doesn’t. He thinks this over for a few minutes, biting carefully into his burger. Eliot picks his up at last, but it suddenly doesn’t look very appealing.

“Eliot,” Wes says after he’s thought for a minute. Eliot flinches; he hates when Wes calls him by his first name. “Are you sure you don’t want to just...come home? Come to Indy, permanently? It’s not a small town like back home. It’s a big city with tons of opportunities. You could do anything you wanted here.”

“I am doing what I want,” he says. It’s true. He’s doing what he’s good at, making a name for himself.

“But you say it’s dangerous,” Wes protests.

Eliot shrugs. “I can handle some danger. I just don’t want it to make its way to you.”

Wes deflates a little, defeated. “I can’t change your mind, can I?” It’s not really a question.

“No.”

“Fine.”

They’re quiet for a couple of minutes. Wes looks forlorn as he continues eating his burger. Eliot nudges his foot under the table. “Hey. Tell me more about Mina.”

Wes lights up again. “She’s great. Even if you don’t come to the wedding, you should meet her. You’d love her. She’s really smart and doesn’t take shit from anyone.”

They spend the rest of lunch talking about innocuous things: life in Indy, sports, the beautiful girl Eliot picked up in France who knew more positions than were in the Kama Sutra. Eliot has him in stitches describing some misadventures in Thailand. It hadn’t really been funny at the time, but in retrospect it was fucking hilarious. And maybe Eliot hopes to assure Wes that even if his life is a little more dangerous now, at least he is still alive to look back on it and laugh.

When the food is gone and the stories begin to wind down, Wes reaches across the table and lays his hand on top of Eliot’s. Eliot’s instinct is to pull away and look around to make sure no one noticed, but he forces himself not to do so. It would be more conspicuous to do that than to just let whatever this is happen.

“Promise me you’ll stay in touch,” Wes says, holding Eliot’s gaze. “I’ve been worried about you. Vance lets me know every once in a while where you are and that you’re still alive, but I’d like to hear it directly from you. Okay?”

“I promise,” Eliot says. They hug once more, and this time Eliot does not push him away.

\---

_ The day of Wes’ wedding, Eliot is halfway across the world in a tiny shack in Minsk. He’s nursing a broken arm, a fractured clavicle, and a deep cut above his left pec. The result of a job gone wrong. He triumphed in the end, but it had been a close call. He waits until the middle of the night so that he knows it’s the right time back in Indy, then calls Wes’ phone number. Wes answers on the second ring. Eliot wishes him one more congratulations. Wes asks why his voice is so strained. Eliot tells him it’s because he’s got a migraine. Asks if he got the food processor Eliot ordered by phone and had shipped to him. Wes assures him he did. Tells him he wishes he was there in person and that he’s a little nervous. Eliot says all the right, reassuring things before making his excuses and hanging up. _

\---

T-Plus-8 Days

_ Excerpt of official transcript from Patient E.S.’s seventh one-on-one therapy session in the Pacific Northwest Addiction and Recovery Institute, Anger Counselling and Management Center. _

**43:26 DL:** Is there anything else you would like to bring up before we finish for the day?

**43:35 ES:** No. Well - maybe.

**43:42 DL:** What’s up?

**43:58 ES:** I was just wondering...has anyone ever been kicked out of the program before?

**44:08:** I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Ethan. You’re making spectacular progress.

**44:20 ES:** No, I don’t mean me.

**44:31 DL:** Is there someone else you’re worried about?

**44:35 ES:** No, I was just curious. About what would happen to someone who got kicked out early. If it turned out they didn’t belong here.

**44:57 DL:** I...don’t know. I’m not sure I’m qualified to answer that.

**45:03 ES:** Okay.

**45:11 DL:** Is everything okay?

**45:15 ES:** Yeah. Thanks for a great session, Doc.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Mentions of domestic violence

T-Plus-9 Days

_ Excerpt of official transcript from Patient E.S.’s eighth one-on-one therapy session in the Pacific Northwest Addiction and Recovery Institute, Anger Counselling and Management Center. _

**30:42 DL:** You look like you have something on your mind.

**31:15 ES:** Do you ever talk to the other therapists about your patients?

**31:22 DL:** Well, a certain amount of communication is necessary when there is professional overlap. For instance, I know you’re in Dr. Mehta’s group therapy, so she might mention if she thinks something you said there might be something we need to explore here. But mostly, I prefer to talk about the things you want to talk about, not what we think you should talk about. Why do you ask?

**32:34 ES:** I was just curious.

\---

Sophie was good at what she did. She knew the right buttons to push, the right words to say to get what she wanted. She enjoyed the process of taking a mark apart bit by bit until they were eating out of her hand - sometimes literally. The push and pull, the manipulation: fun.

But while the process itself was something to be enjoyed, sometimes the results, though desired, were not fun to actually sit through.

Which was why, behind her perfectly neutral smile, Sophie was screaming in her head.

“‘No?’” she asked. “What do you mean ‘no?’”

Huber shrugged. He was sprawled out in his chair, the absolute picture of indifference. His head was tilted to the side, resting against his fist, as he observed Sophie with a mulish expression. “Well,” he said in a condescending tone, “I just think that’s more your job than mine. Don’t you think? Aren’t you supposed to tell me why I act the way I do?”

“I can only take you so far on your journey to self-discovery,” Sophie said beatifically. She gestured expansively so that her bangles clinked together and felt grim satisfaction when Huber’s jaw twitched with irritation. “The rest is up to you. You must dive deep into your past to find the seed of your anger issues.”

The look Huber gave her right now told her he knew exactly what was at the root of his anger issues: her. Which was good, yes, because that was exactly what Sophie was going for.

But it still sucked. She much preferred the jobs where she got to use charm and sophistication to manipulate a mark instead of playing up on a man’s racism and hatred.

“I sense a conflict within you, rooted in unresolved issues with your mother,” Sophie said. She clicked her pen and poised it over her notepad. “Tell me, how old were you when she weaned you off of breastfeeding?”

Say what one will about Freud, he sure knew how to get people riled up. Huber went bright red and spluttered out a refusal to answer that. They got nothing further accomplished for the rest of their session.

Just as Sophie wanted.

\---

“I hate this place,” Huber said later, during lunch.

Eliot poked at his chili. It wasn’t as good as what he could do, but the men on lunch duty had done their best. None of them had been trained by a five-star chef, after all. “It ain’t that bad,” he said.

Huber rolled his eyes. “I’m not talking about the food choices.”

Eliot snorted. “You mean all the wishy-washy hand holding and ‘conflict resolution’ meetings?”

“Yeah, that shit.” Huber had barely eaten any of his lunch, too agitated to sit still. Sophie must’ve really done a number on him during today’s session. “I mean, therapy is just a bunch of idiots making things up that sound smart to fool the masses.”

“Huh,” Eliot said, pretending to ponder this. He was meant to be playing one of the fooled masses, someone too stupid to be a threat to Huber.

“My therapist actually asked me when my mother stopped breastfeeding me,” Huber continued. “And then she started going on and on about all that Freudian bullshit that I’m pretty sure was debunked fifty years ago.”

Eliot grunted. “Yeah, it’s stupid,” he agreed. “But you just gotta keep your head down and play nice and in a few more weeks you’ll be outta here.”

“Four more weeks,” Huber said. “A whole fuckin’ month.”

Eliot said nothing.

“I can’t spend another month here,” Huber said, shaking his head. “I can’t. I’ll go insane.”

“Yeah, but this ain’t prison,” Eliot reminded him. “You don’t get outta here early for good behavior.”

“No, but -” Huber stopped.

Eliot looked at him expectantly. “But what?” he asked when it wasn’t clear if Huber was going to continue.

Huber glanced around and leaned towards him conspiratorially. “But I might be able to leave early. Get out of here and get back to my real life.”

“What? How?” Eliot demanded.

“Shhh, not so loud. Listen, it’s risky. I’m not sure I’ll actually do it. But this lawyer, he came to see me the other day and made me an offer,” Huber said.

“You gonna take him up on it?”

“I don’t know yet,” Huber said.

“Well, shit,” Eliot said. “If you don’t want it, I’ll take it. Whatever it is, I’ll do it. I have to go meet with Jared and Dr. Lehmann about some shit not getting cleaned up in the kitchen like it shoulda been. He’s tryna blame me, like I don’t keep my workspace spotless.”

Huber rolled his eyes again. “So he went and tattled on you? God, it’s like they want to turn us back into children, just mindless sheep who go and tattle when they get upset instead of dealing with it themselves like real men.”

“Yeah,” Eliot said. “If he’s got a problem with me, let him say it to my face rather than squealing like a little girl.”

“Yeah!”

Lunch ended shortly after that, and Huber hadn’t eaten more than a few bites. So now he was going to be agitated  _ and _ hungry.

If Eliot started to feel a little sorry for him, all he had to do was think about that Photoshopped picture of Hardison’s face all smashed in. Or the real pictures of Mr. Undar’s assault. It was difficult to feel sorry for someone who could do that in cold blood.

Believe him, he should know.

\---

Sophie double checked her group therapy roster and surveyed the men settling into their seats. The groups had been reorganised the other day, so she was still getting to know the new patients. Eliot and Huber were the last ones to arrive, together, at the very last minute. They - mostly Huber at Eliot’s encouragement - were exercising what little control over the situation they had, and that was just fine by Sophie. It meant she was getting under Huber’s skin, just as she intended.

She sneaked a glance at Eliot, studying him in that brief little glimpse. He looked relaxed, at ease. Well, actually, that wasn’t entirely accurate. He looked scowly and like he wanted to be anywhere but right there, but Sophie knew most of that was him performing for Huber. She could see his true state of mind in the slant of his shoulders, the smoothed out lines around his eyes, the fact that he’d bothered to style his hair that morning. Sophie breathed an inward sigh of relief; the tension he’d been carrying around for weeks had abated. It wasn’t gone entirely, but some progress was better than no progress. And she knew group therapy was his least favourite activity at the Institute, so for him to be so relaxed here of all places spoke highly of his state of mind.

But there was no time to further ponder Eliot’s well-being. “Are we all here?” Sophie asked, even though she already knew the answer. “Yes? Good. I’d like to start with a community question.”

Sophie caught Eliot’s eye roll that (she hoped) was exclusively for Huber’s benefit. She glanced at a little notecard on her lap, then back up at the patients. “What animal are you most like?”

“Does she get these questions from a kindergarten lesson plan?” Huber mumbled to Eliot, voice picked up by and relayed to Sophie through Eliot’s earbud. Eliot smirked in response. And as much as Sophie wanted to throttle Huber, this was definitely progress. Eliot no longer needed to prompt Huber to get the snarky comments flowing.

Sophie had become aware that in the last couple of days, ever since Nate’s visit as Papadokalis, Huber had been down to the director’s office several times, asking to be transferred to a different psychologist. Every time, the director refused, urging Huber to hang in there and do his best. It wasn’t the Institute’s policy to switch around patient-psychologist pairings in the middle of the course, and besides every other psychologist’s schedule was already full. The team didn’t even have to orchestrate that little disappointment or intervene in any way.

So Huber was getting more and more fed up with Sophie and the Institute. He might not even wait until Sunday to break down and admit everything. Sophie and Eliot had to be ready at a moment’s notice, just in case.

The patients answered Sophie’s question one by one, with her making encouraging comments. Eliot mumbled, “Bear,” to which Sophie responded with a patronizing, “Oooh, how very scary,” like he was a five-year-old showing off his Halloween costume. It was kind of fun getting to tease Eliot like that, knowing he knew it was all for the con. Next, Huber said he was most like a tiger, and Sophie raised an eyebrow and said, “Hm, I see,” like she didn’t quite believe him. Sophie couldn’t throw a wink at Eliot in case Huber saw, but she knew he could read her amusement in the same way that she could read his.

It was a difficult balance to strike, being a terrible psychologist to Huber (and by extension to “Ethan”) while still doing a good job with all the other patients. It was hardly their fault their regular shrink had to leave for a while, so she had to do her best to keep their progress going. And she couldn’t be so blatantly terrible to Huber and Eliot that the other patients noticed and complained to the director that she was picking on them. It was a thin line to walk, and she was going to make sure Nate knew all the effort she put in when this was all over. All  _ he _ had to do was be a greasy slimebag, and it was hardly a stretch for him sometimes.

“Okay, this time, we’ll go around and say what animal we are most like,  _ but _ to make it a little more creative, you have to choose an animal that starts with the same letter as your first name  _ and _ I want you to tell me  _ why _ you’re like that animal. Name three traits that you share,” Sophie said. “I’ll give you a minute to think.”

“That’s easy,” Huber drawled in a stage whisper, loud enough that Sophie could hear without the earbud’s aid. “I’m an a-tiger.”

The others chuckled and Sophie flashed him a tight-lipped smile. “How very clever of you,  _ A _ drian,” she said, emphasizing the A at the beginning of his name. “But we must take these questions seriously. The purpose of a community question is to build  _ community _ . How can anyone in this group get to know you if you are not your most sincere self?”

If Adrian rolled his eyes any harder, they’d be in danger of falling out of his head.

“Jared, will you start us off?”

“I feel like I’m most like a jackalope,” Jared said.

“Jackalopes aren’t real,” Sam, the patient sitting next to Jared, interjected.

“Well, that’s all right,” Sophie said. “I never said it had to be a real animal. What are the three traits you share in common with jackalopes, Jared?”

“Well, one of them is this feeling like I don’t quite exist, you know?” Jared said. “And like people are trying to make me into something I’m not. Also, according to legend, one of the most reliable ways to catch a jackalope is with whiskey since that’s its preferred drink,” he finished with a grin, earning the laugh he’d been looking for.

Sophie made a note in her little book before gesturing for Sam to go next.

When it was Eliot’s turn, he said, “I, uh, guess I’m like an elephant. Ethan the elephant.”

“And your three traits in common?”

“I’m strong, I have a good memory, and I can stomp loud enough to communicate to others in a close proximity.”

This earned him a laugh also. Then it was Huber’s turn. He shrugged. “I dunno, alligator.”

“And the three traits?”

“Thick skin, sharp teeth, and, uh, I like to swim.”

After the circle was complete, Sophie moved onto the next thing she always brought up during group therapy: “Does anyone have any grievances they would like to share in our safe space?”

Sophie’s eyes passed over the group, looking for signs that someone had something to say. Most patients looked at their hands or the floor as they mulled the question over, but Huber’s eyes were trained on the clock. There was a tight set to his mouth, like being here was physically painful to him. When Sophie caught Eliot’s eye, she sent him the tiniest of lip twitches to say that she was pleased with their progress on knocking Huber down. Eliot gave her an almost imperceptible nod in return. Then Sam volunteered to speak, complaining about Jared hogging the remote in the evenings and how that made him feel powerless.

“I’m just saying,” Sam continued on, getting a little worked up, “a man’s gotta put his foot down at some point. There aren’t many things I can control in my life, but what I watch on television should be one of those things!”

Sophie glanced at Eliot, thinking about their conversation a couple years ago about the boxing ring and why men fight. Control. Control of what’s around them, control of who is around them, control of themselves. The men who stepped into the ring, they knew what they were doing. Maybe they didn’t always understand  _ why _ they did it - not everyone was as self-aware as Eliot - but they knew, on some level, what they were fighting for.

“Control is an illusion,” Jared said.

Sam rolled his eyes. “That’s easy for the guy holding the remote to say.”

Before Jared could say anything else, Sophie held up her hand. “‘That’s easy for the guy holding the remote to say,’” she repeated thoughtfully. “Sam, you mentioned that you have control over few things in your life. Those things that you don’t have control over, is there someone else holding the remote?”

“Well, yeah,” Sam said, cooling down slightly. “At work, it’s my boss. At home, my wife. Sure, there are freak accidents sometimes, life just is like that sometimes, but yeah. There’s usually someone else in control, holding their decisions over my head.”

“So, is control actually an illusion?” Sophie asked. “Or is that just something the person with the remote says so the person who doesn’t have the remote will stop asking for it?”

Most of the patients made noises of understanding, like they got what she meant - whether they actually did or didn’t. Sophie knew a thing or two about control. She liked being the one holding the remote. But when she did so, she always let the mark think they had the remote, even though it was, more likely than not, a dud. No batteries, dead.

Huber, however, was not buying it. “Bullshit,” he said.

Sophie looked at him, projecting the aura of someone struggling to remain calm. Let him think he got under her skin. “Pardon me?”

“Control isn’t an illusion. You don’t like what’s on the TV, just take the remote and change the channel. If they have a problem with that, what are they gonna do about it?”

“Look, Adrian,” Sam said, sitting forward to get a better look at Huber. “Just taking whatever you want doesn’t really work in real life. It doesn’t work at home and it sure doesn’t work here.”

“This place isn’t real life,” Huber snapped. “This place is the illusion.”

Sophie glanced around the circle. The other patients, except Eliot, were all looking at Huber with some variance of pity or annoyance. They sensed he wasn’t progressing through the programme as he should, and they were holding him responsible for that lack of progress. They knew he was different from them in some way, and they ostracized him for it - further deepening the rift in Huber’s mind between what his goals at the Institute  _ should _ be versus what he was actually accomplishing. And Sophie didn’t even have to lift a hand. She loved it when she got others to do her work for her.

“This isn’t an illusion,” Jared said sympathetically. “This is reality. You can’t control the people around you, and you especially can’t do it through violence. You don’t have a wife or kids, man.” He looked at his hands. “Maybe you think you can control the people around you by hitting them and taking what you want, but you can’t. Because then they’re hurt and they don’t trust you anymore and they’re scared of what you’ll do next. Fear might lead to temporary control, but ultimately they won’t put up for it forever.”

Sophie was watching Huber for a reaction, so she caught Eliot’s flinch out of the corner of her eye. She frowned, wondering what that was about. Eliot didn’t rattle easily, but now that she looked closely, she could see he looked a little cagey.

“My wife - my ex-wife,” Sam said, “never called the cops on me when I hit her, but she didn’t have to. Our neighbour finally got tired of seeing her covered in bruises. I mean, I - I...you know, I would just - I love her. I do. But sometimes she would piss me off and I just felt like - like I had to teach her a lesson. You know? And I would apologize and she would forgive me but it would always happen again. You wanna talk about control? Do you know how powerless you are when your wife brings you the divorce papers at the jail during visiting hours? That was the least amount of control I’ve ever had in my entire life.”

“You can’t control what other people do,” another patient, Daniel, added. “The only person you can control is yourself and how you react to the people around you.”

“Even then, control of yourself is really hard sometimes,” Sam said. “It’s like the anger controls you more.”

“And part of what you’re here to learn is how to control the anger so it doesn’t control you,” Sophie said.

Huber didn’t say anything else, but his stance was completely closed off. His arms were crossed over his chest, he was slumped in his seat, and he wouldn’t look any of them in the eye. Sophie doubted he was listening to the rest of the conversation at all.

“So,” Sophie continued, “using the information and strategies we’ve been working on, how can we come to a compromise that will help Sam and Jared with their television conflict? Anyone?”

Neither Huber nor Eliot contributed anything further as the conversation shifted to conflict resolution skills. Sophie didn’t expect anything else from Huber, so that was fine. But Eliot’s silence weighed on Sophie for reasons she couldn’t quite grasp. It was hardly unusual for him to be quiet. But there was an uneasiness in his eyes and in his body language that she was fairly certain wasn’t an act for Huber’s benefit. Was something going wrong with the con? She didn’t think so. Huber was exactly where they needed him to be. So it must be something he was struggling with by himself.

Not for the first time, Sophie wished he didn’t feel the need to take everything on so privately. No, she didn’t expect him to live every moment of his life out loud the way Hardison did, but some recognition of the fact that the team wanted to support him wouldn’t be so out of place.

Well, at least he wasn’t so emotionally repressed he couldn’t even recognise his own emotions, unlike  _ some _ people she could mention. He might be battling something right now, but he understood his battle. 

She hoped he did, anyway.

\---

Eliot waited until after dinner to go down the corridor that led to the psychologists’ offices. He didn’t sneak, because sneaking implied that he was doing something wrong. If he didn’t sneak, then anyone who happened to be watching the surveillance monitors wouldn’t have extra reason to suspect he didn’t belong down there. So while everyone else was occupied with their free-time activities, Eliot walked boldly down the hall and picked the lock to Dr. Lehmann’s office so swiftly that even Parker would be proud of him. He stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind him.

He needed a phone. The patients had access to a communal phone that was monitored and recorded, but the doctors’ phones weren’t. That was what he needed. He sat down in Dr. Lehmann’s office chair and dialled a number he knew by heart.

A woman’s voice answered on the third ring, sounding a little sleepy. “Hello?”

Eliot swallowed. “Hi, Auntie.”

The sleepiness disappeared as Auntie Mel exclaimed, “Oh, praise be, baby! How are you?”

Eliot couldn’t suppress a small smile. She always said the same thing when she heard his voice, those infrequent times when he reached out to let her know he was all right. Or at the very least, still alive. She knew better than to use his name, but she didn’t have to. And if Uncle Randy was listening on their end, he would know by the tone of her voice who she was talking to. “I’m fine. How’re y’all?”

“Oh, we’re good, we’re good. Well, Randy’s arthritis is actin’ up again, you know it seems to get worse every year. But he’ll alternate some ice and the heating pad on his knee and that takes out the worst of it. Still, you never know how many muscles and joints you have until they’re all old and creaky,” Auntie Mel said.

Eliot laughed. “Yup.”

Auntie Mel tsked. “Oh, what would you know about it?” she asked. “You young ’un. Trust me, you think you ache now, just wait twenty years.”

Eliot pressed his lips together. He had no illusions about whether or not he would be alive twenty years from now. Plus, he was plenty achy already. But she didn’t need to know all that. “Okay, Auntie.”

“I’m glad you called, sweetie. I been thinkin’ ‘bout you a lot lately.”

That shouldn’t surprise Eliot as much as it did. Auntie Mel had a big heart, and he knew she loved him like he was her own kid. Yet, it still gave him a tiny jolt to hear her say that. And maybe - just maybe - it lifted his heart a little bit. “Yeah?”

“Mm-hmmm. Just little things been remindin’ me of ya. Maybe I’m gettin’ a little nostalgic in my old age,” Auntie Mel said.

Eliot chuckled, even though it made his heart ache to hear her talking like Grammy June used to. “You ain’t even sixty yet.”

“Some days I feel older’n dirt.”

“If you’re older than dirt, what does that make Dad, then?” Eliot asked.

There was a stunned pause on the other end of the line. Eliot closed his eyes, regretting having sprung that on her. In the years since he’d gotten back in contact with her, he’d never once let her talk about his father. It had always hurt too much. It still did, a little, but he’d been travelling further and further down memory lane this last week and a half, and he was full up of strange, antsy emotions that felt like they were drowning him. And maybe,  _ maybe _ , if he got some of his questions answered, the emotions would recede and he could breathe again.

“He misses you,” Auntie Mel said, bypassing any response to what Eliot actually said. Eliot’s gut clenched, and he wondered if she somehow knew, in spite of the years of avoidance, that this was one of the few phrases left in the world that caused his heart to jump.

“He told you that?” Eliot asked quietly.

Another pause, shorter this time. “Not in so many words, but I’ve known him my entire life. I know he misses you.”

Eliot sighed, deflating. Of course he wouldn’t say it out loud. Of course not. And therein lay the crux of the whole goddamn problem. “Auntie, I - I wanted to ask you something. About him.”

“Anything, sweetie.”

“What was he like before Vietnam?”

Auntie Mel was quiet for a long time. Eliot could hear her soft breaths on the other end of the line, could hear the gentle  _ click..click _ of something that sounded like a pen cap being thumbed off and then pushed back on again. He waited, wondering what was going through her mind, wondering if Uncle Randy was there, too, and they were having a silent conversation with their eyes, trying to decide what to tell him.

The response was less than he’d hoped for. “Why do you want to know that?” Auntie Mel asked, an edge in her voice.

Eliot looked at a photograph on Dr. Lehmann’s desk. It was of Lehmann and her wife on their wedding day. It looked to have been an outdoor ceremony, sunny and transcendent. “I’ve been thinking over some stuff recently. About my childhood.”

“Your daddy did the best he could,” Auntie Mel said immediately. “God knows he wasn’t the same after he came back, but he did right by you and your mama, and I better not hear -”

“I know,” Eliot hastened to assure her. “I know he did. But he wasn’t perfect, Auntie. And sometimes I can feel myself making the same mistakes he did, when I should know better.” The emotional distancing, the repression, the inability to face any feeling head on, coming at it instead from an oblique angle of deniability… How much of that came from his own experiences and how much from his father’s influence? And how much of what his father taught him came from his own struggles with violence?

“The Lord didn’t make nobody perfect,” Auntie Mel said.

“I know,” Eliot said again. “I just want to know who he was.”

Auntie Mel considered this for a moment. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll tell you about your daddy. You know, after your grandpa passed, Marvin had to be the man of the house. He helped Mama raise me and Marion. Your daddy always had a strong sense of responsibility. You get that from him...”

Eliot sat back in Dr. Lehmann’s chair, listening intently. This was risky for so many reasons, not just the possibility of him getting caught in an off-limits area with a makeshift lockpick and using a doctor’s private phone. Even if she didn’t use his name, there weren’t that many people who called Mel “Auntie.” If anyone had thought to tap her phone, they could trace their way back to him. Or he could be sending trouble their way. This wasn’t one of the secure burners Hardison usually gave him when he asked for one. 

He’d have Vance check in on the family once he was out of this place. And he’d be extra vigilant for intrusions of the non-Parker variety for a few weeks.

If Auntie Mel could provide him the answers he was looking for, it would be worth it.

\---

T-Plus-9 Days

_ Excerpt of official transcript from Patient E.S.’s eighth one-on-one therapy session in the Pacific Northwest Addiction and Recovery Institute, Anger Counselling and Management Center. _

**35:49 DL:** Mind if I make an observation?

**35:58 ES:** That’s your job.

**36:02 DL:** You’ve been pretty curious about the inner workings of the Institute lately.

**36:10 ES:** Huh. I, uh, hadn’t noticed.

**36:13 DL:** I promise, you are safe here. You’re not getting kicked out and I’m not telling Dr. Mehta all about the things we talk about. The specifics are between you and me only. Okay?

**36:46 ES:** Yeah. Of course.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Canon-alluded murder, objectification of women

T-Plus-9 Days

_ Excerpt of official transcript from Patient E.S.’s eighth one-on-one therapy session in the Pacific Northwest Addiction and Recovery Institute, Anger Counselling and Management Center. _

**12:03 DL:** ...but then again, I’ve always been a glass-half-full kind of person, Ethan. How about you?

**12:20 ES:** Neither.

**12:22 DL:** Neither?

**12:28 ES:** No. Whether the glass is half empty or half full depends on how it was to start with. If it started out full but now half of it’s gone, it’s gonna feel half-empty. If the glass started out empty, then it’s gonna feel half-full. But when you start out at empty, then even that half-full feeling can feel like the best thing in the world.

**13:20 DL:** Sometimes we need to get a little empty to truly appreciate the half-fullness in our lives.

**13:57 ES:** Something like that, yeah.

\---

Eliot’s life becomes a series of jobs: name, place, and a general timeframe of when the task needs to be completed. They aren’t all hits, but many of them are, as word of his talents spread.

\---

  1. Jorgensen, Norway, needs a political opponent eliminated. Sniper shot from a nearby building as the mark walks through a crowded market.



\---

  1. Chambers, USA, had a painting stolen from him and wants it back. Any means necessary. Job completed with minor injuries.



\---

  1. Delaney, USA, CEO whose an employee found out too much information about their finances.



\---

  1. Zaccaro, Italy, needs a special item moved to Iran. Eliot finds himself in a tight spot in the middle of the job. He can kill every person in this room or he can wait until he is alone with the guard who has a very distinctive look of repressed desire in his eyes.



Eliot chooses the latter and completes the job with no more fuss.

\---

  1. Astari, Russia, political opponent elimination. He eschews the gun in favor of a subtler method.



\---

  1. Abdisubhan, Saudi Arabia, three-week protection detail.



\---

  1. Hahn, Somalia, a powerful merchant with too many connections.



\---

  1. Del Rosario, Philippines, wantsinformation about a local organization that is becoming too powerful. Any means necessary. A week after the organization’s leader is released, Eliot can still hear the man’s screams in his sleep.



\---

  1. Moreau, Italy, needs some items moved.



\---

  1. Moreau, Italy, wants to send a message to a rival dealer.



\---

  1. Moreau, USA, looking for a buyer for a special shipment.



\---

  1. Moreau, Japan.



\---

  1. Moreau, Canada.



\---

  1. Moreau, Italy.



\---

“We really must stop meeting like this,” Moreau jokes, all charming smiles and gestures.

Eliot doesn’t smile back or laugh. “You keep inviting me,” he points out.

They’re standing in a lavish hotel suite in the Caymans. Moreau is wearing a bathrobe, and the women in the suite who seem to do nothing but giggle and play with each other are in varying states of undress. Several of them give Eliot appraising looks, which he gladly returns.

Moreau waggles a finger at Eliot. “That is very true, Mr. Spencer. You’ve got me there.” He settles into a plush chair and gestures at the other one. “Please, have a seat.”

Eliot doesn’t even glance at it. “I prefer to stand.”

Moreau smirks at him, no sign of discomfort at the imbalance between them. “Of course you do,” he says. He hasn’t stopped smiling once, as if everything around him is endlessly amusing. “You know what I notice, Eliot? May I call you Eliot?”

Eliot shrugs.

“Eliot. I notice that although I am the one extending the invitations, you keep accepting.” Moreau grabs one of the girls by her wrist and pulls her to sit on his lap.

“I imagine not many people say no to you, Mr. Moreau,” Eliot says.

Moreau taps his chin thoughtfully. “I think you’d be surprised. Some people do, actually.”

_ And how long do they stay alive after? _ Eliot wonders, but he says nothing.

Moreau grins. “You do not give much away. I like that. You’re reliable and you get the job done to satisfaction. I’d like to offer you a permanent position at my side.”

“Bodyguard?” Eliot raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.

Moreau runs a finger around the girl on his lap’s knee. “No, no. You’d be so much more than that,” he assures Eliot. “I might need you for any variety of things. Sending messages, persuasion, moving items. You’ve shown me you’re quite versatile.” He runs his finger further up the girl’s thigh. “And of course there’d be benefits.”

“I’m not interested in being a kept man,” Eliot says. He turns around and starts to walk away.

“It would mean a steady paycheck,” Moreau calls after him, making him pause. “And you know I pay well.”

Eliot turns back around. Moreau does pay well, more than most of the people who hire Eliot. Not a ton more, but enough that it’s noticeable.

“I like a job well done, and you’re the best at what you do,” Moreau says. “Wouldn’t it be nice not to have to throw away half your paychecks on squalid little holes in whatever wall it’s safe enough to crawl into? You will live where I live, which means you’ll have nice, comfortable beds and a secure roof over your head. You’ll eat the finest of cuisine and have access to certain of my -” he squeezes the girl’s thigh - “assets. In exchange, you do what I ask you to when I ask you to.”

Eliot hesitates. He hasn’t been tied to anyone or anything since the Army. It’s been a few years. The idea makes him a little uneasy. And he  _ knows _ there is something malicious lurking behind Moreau’s wide smiles. What happens when Moreau stops smiling? Eliot has a feeling if he accepts the job, he will be what happens.

The tasks Moreau has given him so far haven’t been particularly troublesome. Nothing like that one in Belarus where Eliot barely escaped with his life. Or the time in Snezhinsk. That’s something Eliot never wants to do again.

Eliot glances at the other men in the room. “I work alone.”

“Of course,” Moreau acknowledges.

“And I do it my own way.”

Moreau inclines his head slightly. “Naturally. As long as you don’t cause me any extra headaches along the way, you’re free to enact your duties any way you see fit.”

“How long will you give me to decide?”

Moreau’s expression is unfathomable as he says, “Are you familiar with the marshmallow test, Eliot?”

He is, but he won’t give that away. “No.”

“In the marshmallow test, a psychologist sits a child at a desk and tells him, ‘Here is a marshmallow. You may eat it right now, if you want. It’s really yummy. But. If you can wait five minutes, I will give you two marshmallows and you can eat both.’ The children who have patience, you see, they get double the reward.”

“Hm,” Eliot says.

“Adults will say of course they will wait the five minutes for their bigger reward. Do you know what I say?”

“Just shoot the psychologist and steal the bag of marshmallows?” Eliot guesses.

Moreau’s smile is sharp as glass. “Exactly.” He pats the girl’s thigh to get her to stand up. When she does, he also stands and paces a little. “But for you, I think I can have a little patience. You have two hours to decide.” He turns on his heel and disappears through the bedroom door.

\---

It’s not the promise of money or exotic villas or access to Moreau’s collection of beautiful women that gets Eliot to agree. It’s not that he likes Moreau or appreciates how he operates. It’s not even fear of reprisal or threat of torture. It’s simply that Eliot has nothing better going on right now. The PMC work has grown repetitive, and Eliot can feel himself settling into a rut. He wants something new, different, challenging. Exciting. Working for Moreau promises all of that and more. He does have one more caveat, however:

“I can walk away at any time, no questions asked,” Eliot tells Moreau when he returns two hours later to the minute.

Moreau shakes his head slightly, like he’s disappointed. “Eliot, Eliot. Now what kind of entrepreneur would I be if I just let someone walk away after learning all my business secrets?”

Eliot shrugs. “I don’t snitch. I maintain the strictest confidence of every employer I’ve ever had. Even under torture.”

One of Moreau’s men lets out a disbelieving snort. Eliot glances at him before turning back to Moreau, clearly dismissing him as unimportant.

“More than one person has tried,” Eliot says. “I can walk away at any time, or I walk away right now, Moreau.”

He’s forcing Moreau to play his hand. And he can see that Moreau knows it. It’s a gamble: if Moreau were to decide right there that Eliot already knows too much to be let go, Eliot is surrounded by his gun-toting toadies. There are few times when Eliot’s faced worse odds. But Eliot suspects that Moreau likes him just enough to acquiesce.

His suspicion is correct. Moreau studies him for a long, cold minute, before breaking into a wide smile. “You are a good negotiator,” he remarks, wagging a finger at Eliot like he’s a naughty child. “Very well. You get to walk away at any time. But,” he adds, “if you do and I hear that you’ve told anyone about my operations…” He lets the threat hang.

Eliot nods. “I would expect nothing else.”

“Wonderful. Let’s celebrate! You.” He points to one of the beautiful women. “Get us some champagne.”

They toast their new working relationship, and Eliot drinks enough to get a nice buzz going and pulls one of the girls into a loose embrace. She glances over at Moreau, who gives her a subtle nod. Only then does she fully relax into Eliot. The message is clear. Eliot may have access to Moreau’s “assets” as he called them, but they still, ultimately, belong to Moreau.

It’s a lesson that Eliot carefully files away. Because agreement or not, he knows he is now one of Moreau’s assets as well.

\---

It doesn’t take long for Eliot to discover Moreau is not like other men who have hired him in the past. He thinks he probably knew that all along, but it soon becomes starkly apparent. The people who get on his good side and stay there are rewarded with money, power, fame, luxury - whatever they want. Those who do not… Well. Moreau’s temper is mercurial, quick and deadly.

That side of the business is only part of what Eliot does for Moreau, but it’s the vast majority. Moreau is as good as his word when it comes to letting Eliot do things his own way. A few times, in the beginning, Moreau gets a little dictatorial with him, testing his boundaries.  _ That man stole from me, let’s show him what his people used to do to thieves. _ Or  _ I’m tired of this middleman. He’s making things more difficult. Take this gun and take him out to the river. _ And  _ Fingernails. Now. _ Eliot stands his ground. He didn’t take this position to be some bloodlusting thug, he reminds Moreau. Cutting off hands, pulling out fingernails - it may send a message, but it’s crude and unnecessarily blunt. Give him a couple hours with the offender, he says, and he will get Moreau what he’s after.

It works. With a little bit of time and patience, Eliot can dig into the person’s deepest fears and lay them out before them. Even when death is unavoidable, Eliot at least makes sure that it’s swift and as painless as possible.

Moreau’s grunts are not so discerning. There’s no art to the methods they employ. Take Chapman, for example. Chapman starts working for Moreau about a year after Eliot. ( _ What do you need him for? _ Eliot demands, a little jealous, a little offended.  _ He’s a ruthless little shit, _ Moreau says calmly.  _ Better to have him on my side than not _ .) Chapman has no grace, no style. Using him for a job is like using a bulldozer to knock down a single bowling pin. It gets the job done, but it’s completely over-the-top. Unnecessary. And he enjoys it. That’s what gets to Eliot. The man loves seeing other people in pain. It takes all of Eliot’s will not to shove Chapman’s head into a tub of water and hold it there until he stops breathing.

At least one positive thing that comes from working for Moreau is that Eliot is able to ditch his gun for good. He hasn’t liked using it, opting at every opportunity to find some other way of disarming, disabling, or taking out his opponents. It’s a showyand blunt tool, suited more to the likes of Chapman or Moreau’s other thugs. Eliot much prefers being hands-on. He rarely used the gun before anyway, yet he still carried it for protection. Now his very name and reputation are his protection.

Still, the work is dirty and difficult, and every time Eliot compartmentalizes a little bit more, feels a little less, he sinks deeper into a hole he doesn’t even know he climbed into.

\---

“I have a task for you.”

Eliot watches Moreau with expressionless eyes. Moreau has that look in his eye, the one that means something particularly nasty is about to befall someone. Moreau slides a file across the table towards Eliot.

They are alone in a room in one of Moreau’s sprawling houses, this one located in a suburb of Dallas. Moreau has a couple of goons posted at the door - he never goes anywhere without at least two men, even to talk to another of his employees. Eliot is taking a break after the last task Moreau asked him to complete. Normally Moreau doesn’t line up jobs for him so quickly, so this is a bit of a surprise. Eliot picks up the file and glances through it. Whoever this guy is must have pissed Moreau off but good.

“What’s the task?”

“Elimination.”

Eliot nods, unsurprised. “When do you need it done by?”

“One week.”

Eliot’s eyes narrow. That’s fast. “I need more time to prepare and set -”

“No need,” Moreau cuts him off. “I already made the preparations. I just need you to carry it out.”

Eliot sits back in his chair. “What happened to letting me do it my way?”

Moreau runs a hand through his hair, a gesture quite uncharacteristic for him. In fact, he looks more rumpled than Eliot has ever seen him before. “I’ve already had to send a message to this man once before. He heeded me for a while, but now he is causing me trouble again. I want him and all of his cohorts taken care of. If you won’t do it, I will get Chapman or Ruggard to do it.”

Eliot considers Moreau for a long moment. “I’ll do it. Of course I will, Damien.”

Moreau smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He tells Eliot an address and a few simple instructions. One week from today, the man in question will be at that address and Eliot’s task is to stage a gas leak that will cause a devastating explosion.

It’s simple, if a bit inelegant. Eliot performs the job to a T and Moreau is pleased with his work.

It’s only afterward that Eliot begins to piece together certain information.

It’s only afterward that he finds out the “cohorts” Moreau wanted eliminated along with this man were his teenage children and pregnant wife.

It’s only afterward that he sees friends and family on the news grieving the beautiful lives cut short.

It’s only afterward that he discovers the man works for some tiny local government office and his only crime is that he got in the way of a permit Moreau needs and refused to be bribed.

It’s only afterward that Moreau listens to Eliot yell about murdering children, stares at him with indifferent eyes, and says, “You would have me leave those children without a father? A grieving widow with a new baby to raise all on her own? A baby that will remind her every day of the man she lost? Is that the compassionate thing to do?”

Eliot walks out. He finds the nearest, seediest bar and gets drunker than he’s been in a long time. Some guy tries to start a fight with him, and Eliot takes him down with one punch. He goes back to knocking back drinks like they’re water. At some point a cab comes for him and he’s not sure if he called for it or the bartender did. He has the cabbie take him to his hotel, a lavish, five-star, exclusive hotel that’s more Moreau’s style than his. It’s late now, well after midnight. Eliot sits on his cloud-soft bed and stares at his hands, wondering how and when they got so damn bloody.

Time passes, though he can’t say how much - and he can’t read the clock properly through his tequila-watery eyes. He picks up the in-room phone and, before he can think through his actions, dials a number he’s had memorized since he was five.

A sleepy-soft whisper answers on the third ring. “Hello? Hello?”

Eliot doesn’t say anything. His eyes fill with tears he didn’t know he could still produce. Auntie Mel’s voice is a soothing balm, a cool cloth on a fever-hot forehead. He breathes in and lets it out in a long, broken sigh.

“Hello? I can hear you.” Her voice is getting louder now, and he thinks she’s about to rouse Uncle Randy. “Who is this?”

He hangs up before he can worry her any further.

\---

Even though Moreau said Eliot can walk away at any time, Eliot keeps a watchful eye out. For the first time he is grateful that Moreau’s men lack subtlety. He would see any of them - especially Chapman - coming from a mile away. He keeps careful tabs on Moreau and makes sure to stay out of his way. Once or twice this means turning down lucrative jobs. He’s true to his word, though - he never tells anyone about Moreau or what he used to do for him.

A year or two after leaving Moreau, Eliot takes a job in Antwerp from his second PMC. It should be simple. He is hired to recon a restaurant in the downtown area. Why his employer wants recon on a restaurant, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t even particularly care. It’s not the strangest place he’s ever been asked to case. It doesn’t even make the top five.

The timing is difficult to pin down. Restaurant workers keep late hours, prepping food for the next day’s first shift. Normally casing a building is middle-of-the-night work, 1:00 or 2:00 AM, but there are still too many active people in the restaurant at that time. So Eliot waits until nearly 4:00 AM, knowing he’s cutting it close. Soon early morning workers will begin their commutes, making a smooth exit from the building more difficult.

Eliot slips inside effortlessly via the alley door by the dumpster. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the pitch black interior; the EXIT sign above the door barely illuminates anything. Once he can see reasonably well again, he begins moving carefully around the kitchen. He takes stock of the counters, sinks, ovens, stoves, cleaning supplies. Everything is neat and tidy and spotless. Of course, things will move when the kitchen staff returns later today, but for now he can see where things rest when no one is here. Later he'll draw a detailed map for his employer.

He opens up the industrial refrigerator. It’s even darker inside, so he takes out a miniature flashlight and shines it inside. There’s all the food the late shift prepared. He picks up a large container from a shelf at eye level and peeks inside. It’s some sort of sauce, dark and spicy smelling. Eliot dips his pinkie into it and has a little taste.

“How is it?”

The voice does not startle Eliot. He’s long past being startled by anything unexpected. He takes his time covering the sauce back up and replacing it on its shelf as he weighs his options for dealing with this unwanted intrusion: he has a knife on him that would work well. It’d be messy but at least a knife wouldn’t be out of place in a kitchen. Accidents happen all the time, after all. Less suspicious than wrapping a rope around the man’s neck and choking him out.

“It’s amazing,” Eliot says, stepping away from the fridge and towards the man. He’s older than Eliot by at least ten years, maybe twenty. He’s small and lean, but appears unconcerned.

In fact, the man is so unconcerned that he walks right past Eliot and reopens the fridge. He takes the container out. “I’m glad you like it,” he says, “but unfortunately you ruined it. I’m going to have to make it all over again. One last taste before I dump it in the trash?” He offers the bowl to Eliot.

Eliot looks at him warily. “I barely put my finger in it. And my finger’s clean.”

“Hm. Maybe so, but when you taste anything in a professional kitchen, you use a tasting spoon. Even if you’ve just washed your hands. It doesn’t matter,” the man informs Eliot. He takes the bowl over to the trash can and upends it. The contents gloop out into the garbage.

Eliot frowns. It seems like such a waste. “Couldn’t you have just scooped out the bit that I touched?”

The man shakes his head. “I really don’t know what germs you’ve got on your fingers. I can’t in good conscience feed contaminated food to my customers.” He rinses out the bowl and dries it, then moves to a counter. He glides easily through the darkness, perfectly at ease. “We’re going to need tomatoes, almonds, garlic, red wine, and ñora chili peppers.”

“We?”

The man snorts a small laugh. “This sauce takes two hours to make. If you think I’m going to stay up all night by myself because you ruined my sauce, you are very much mistaken, my friend.”

Eliot grits his teeth. “I’m not your friend.”

The man barely glances up. “Be that as it may,” he says, laying out utensils, “we still need tomatoes.” He gestures to a pantry. “Over there, please. And hit the lights while you’re there. We might as well be able to see what we’re cooking.”

Eliot knows what he  _ should _ do. It’s not too late to slip out and the man will never be able to identify him because while he may know his way around his own kitchen in the pitch darkness, there’s no way he saw enough of Eliot’s face to recognize him later. Or Eliot should do what he came here to do and if that means taking this guy out, so be it. He was hired for a purpose, one that has nothing to do with tomatoes or wine.

Instead, against his better judgement, Eliot walks over to the pantry and flips the lights on along the way. Not all of them, but enough that he and the man can see more clearly now.

Which means the man can see his face.

Which means…

Well, it doesn’t bear thinking about right now. Because right now the man is waiting patiently for him to bring over the ingredients. Eliot grabs the basket of tomatoes sitting in the pantry, then piles some garlic heads and a container of almonds on top. He reaches for some peppers.

“Not those,” the man says. Eliot looks over his shoulder; there’s no way the man could see what peppers he’s going for, yet he seems certain Eliot’s about to grab the wrong ones. “One shelf up. They’re small and dried.”

Eliot looks up and sees the ones he’s talking about. He grabs a couple of handfuls, uncertain how many will be needed. He brings them over to the man, who accepts the basket and begins laying out the ingredients. “Wine, please. Red, from Bordeaux. Any vintage will do.”

It takes Eliot a minute to find what he’s looking for and bring it over. He holds it up for the man, who is washing the tomatoes, to inspect; the man nods his approval and gestures with his head for Eliot to set it down with the other ingredients. “Now, please preheat the oven to 180 degrees, and then wash your hands.”

The oven looks intimidating, far more professional than anything Eliot has ever used, but it really is simple to operate. Eliot sets the temperature and sees that the oven measures in Celsius, not Fahrenheit. Logically, he knows that European countries use Celsius, but the man has an American accent so he wants to make sure that’s correct. “One-eighty Celsius or Fahrenheit?”

“Celsius,” the man replies. “It’s about three-fifty Fahrenheit.”

“Okay.” Eliot leaves the oven to do its thing and goes to a different sink to wash his hands. “What’s your name?” He doesn’t mean to ask; it just slips out unintended.

“Toby,” the man says. He has finished washing the tomatoes and now waits patiently for Eliot to join him. “What’s yours?”

Fair’s fair, he supposes. “Eliot.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Eliot,” Toby says. “Let me show you how to slice up these tomatoes.”

“I know how to slice tomatoes,” Eliot says.

“Do you, now?” Toby doesn’t sound skeptical, simply intrigued. He pushes one of the tomatoes over to Eliot and holds out a serrated knife. “Let’s see, then.”

Eliot takes the knife. It’s been a long while since he used one for something so benign as slicing tomatoes. He adjusts his grip, a half-forgotten memory of Mrs. Fallon standing behind him to show him how to properly hold the knife coming back to him. Toby nods his approval. Eliot slices swiftly through the tomato.

“Not bad,” Toby says. “Your slices are a little uneven. You want to make sure they’re the same thickness so that they roast evenly. Also, you waste energy moving your arms in such big motions. Here, let me show you.”

He takes the knife back and whips through two tomatoes in half the time it took Eliot to do one. Eliot has to admit, he’s impressed. When Toby offers him the knife back, Eliot mimics Toby’s movements; he’s a little clumsy at first but after the first few slices the motions come easier. He’s nowhere near as fast as Toby, but what can he expect? Toby’s been doing this for years.

“Very good,” Toby says, and it’s ridiculous how nice that is to hear. When was the last time someone told Eliot “good job” with such warmth and approval?

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

Toby retrieves another knife and together they work their way through the tomatoes. Once they are all cut into even slices, Toby and Eliot lay them out onto baking sheets along with garlic. The sheets then go into the oven and Toby sets the timer for an hour.

“Now, the peppers.”

He shows Eliot how to tear a small hole in each pepper and place it in a large, heatproof bowl. As Eliot works on those, Toby sets some water on to boil. They don’t talk much as they work. Eliot falls into the rhythm of the task at hand, his mind wandering. No, not exactly wandering - the opposite. His mind is still for the first time in a long time, focused on one movement after another. His breath comes soft and slow, measured. The way the knife pierces the skin of the peppers is vastly different from piercing flesh, and Eliot welcomes the change with relief. Peppers can’t scream when you gut them. Garlic doesn’t babble whatever you want to hear when you smash it flat. Tomatoes don’t make futile promises when you turn up the heat.

“Here we are.”

Toby takes the bowl of peppers from Eliot and pours the boiling water over them. He wets down some paper towel and places it over the top—to help keep the peppers submerged, he explains. They need to soak for about half an hour. The tomatoes and garlic still have forty-five minutes on the timer.

“Now, we have a moment to relax,” Toby says.

Eliot frowns at the remainder of the ingredients. “Isn’t there something we can be working on while we wait?”

“Sometimes it’s important to let yourself rest,” Toby says. He fills a kettle with water and places it on the still-hot stove, turns the dial back on to high. “Do you like tea?”

“Yes.” He’s not a major connoisseur by any means, but he’ll drink it on occasion.

“I don’t have as big a selection here as I do at my apartment,” Toby says, going to the pantry, “but I always keep some on hand. For late nights and such.”

“Why are you here so late?” Eliot asks, curiosity bubbling out of him before he can stop it. He shouldn’t care - he wouldn’t care, normally. But this man intrigues him.

“Why are you?” Toby counters mildly. “Between the two of us, it’s a lot less odd for me to be here than you.”

Eliot snorts. “Fair.”

They are quiet while they wait for the water to boil. Toby puts some loose leaf tea into two strainers that he lays across two mugs. Eliot sniffs, smelling lavender and blueberries, among other things. It smells good. The kettle whistles, and Toby pours the water over the leaves, filling both mugs.

There isn’t really anywhere to sit in the kitchen - why would there be? - so Toby picks up both mugs and gestures with his head for Eliot to follow him into the dining area. They sit down at the table just off from the kitchen doors. Toby removes the strainer from his mug and pours some sugar in, stirring it with a gentle  _ clink clink _ . Eliot also removes his strainer but shakes his head when Toby offers the sugar.

“Milk? Cream?”

Eliot shakes his head again, takes a sip. It’s good, but it  _ is  _ missing something. Eliot ponders for a moment. “Honey?” he asks.

Toby lights up, like Eliot has said something extraordinary. “Yes, wonderful,” he says. “Honey pairs nicely with this flavor of tea. Hold on, I’ll go get it.”

It only takes him a moment to return with a little pot of honey and a small spoon, which Eliot dips into the honey and transfers a little into his mug. He stirs before taking a cautious sip. It’s sweet, but not overpoweringly so, tangy and light. Eliot breathes in the steam and feels something loosen in his chest that he didn’t know was tight.

“So,” Toby says after a long moment. “What are you looking for, Eliot?”

Eliot knows he just means what is he doing in Toby’s restaurant well past closing time with undoubtedly ill intent. Obviously Eliot didn’t break in just to stick his finger in some sauce. But the question feels bigger than that. What is Eliot looking for? He doesn’t know. He hasn’t known for a long time, now. He shrugs.

“Nothing important,” he says, and it’s true. The things his clients hire him to do, to retrieve… it all seems so petty and insignificant sometimes. Meaningless. If his job has no meaning, and if Eliot defines himself by his job, then does that mean that he, too, has no importance?

Toby doesn’t become irritated or question him further. He simply nods, like he understands. “You’re American, aren’t you?”

Eliot nods. “You are, too.”

“Yes,” Toby says. “Not many American tourists come here. Those that do are usually part of a group. What brings you out here?”

“A job,” Eliot says. “You?” Get the mark talking about himself, take the focus off of Eliot. People love to talk about themselves, and with the right questions Eliot can get them talking for hours.

“Same,” Toby says. “A job.” He gestures around them at the restaurant. “I was hand picked to run this place.”

“Huh. You must be good, then.”

Toby smiles gently. “I must be. It’s a very competitive field, you know. To run a Michelin-rated restaurant is a very big deal. Some chefs would kill for the chance. Me? I just do what I love.”

Eliot thinks that over for a little while. He’s always done what he’s good at, but not because he loved it. It’s difficult to imagine having real passion for something. “So if you had the choice of doing anything in the world, this would be it?”

Toby takes a sip of his tea. “Actually, no. If I could do anything I wanted, I would open a school for underprivileged youths, teaching them to cook. Then they can go off and be the head chefs for Michelin-rated restaurants.”

“That’s a nice dream.”

“Thank you.”

They talk aimlessly about what it’s like in Antwerp, what sights they’ve seen, where else they’ve been. Eliot holds back on revealing everywhere he’s travelled, keeping it just to Western European cities. He makes it sound like he’s taken some trips while keeping a steady job in one location. Toby never asks what his occupation is, and Eliot is both grateful and suspicious. Usually that’s the first thing an American wants to know about someone: what they do for a living.

When their tea is gone, they move back into the kitchen. The peppers, tomatoes, and garlic are just about ready, so Toby walks Eliot through how to skin them with a paring knife. Then he takes up a mortar and pestle and shows Eliot how to smash up the ingredients and blend them together.

“Wouldn’t a food processor be easier?” Eliot asks. Especially for this volume of sauce.

“Easier, yes. But there is a deeply personal touch to using a mortar and pestle that you don’t get with a machine,” Toby says.

So Eliot mashes everything up as finely as he can and blends it all together into a thick paste. While Eliot is working on that, Toby selects two cuts of salmon from the fridge and sets about preparing them. “It’s not as fresh as I would prefer to serve,” Toby says, “but our fishmonger doesn’t deliver for a few more hours. I’m sure you understand.” 

Eliot frowns, curious. “Who are you serving?”

“Us,” Toby says as if it’s obvious. “Do you even know what you’re making?”

Eliot blinks. It hadn’t occurred to him until now. He hadn’t intended to be making  _ anything _ tonight, after all. “Uh, no.”

“Romesco sauce,” Toby tells him. “It can be used on all sorts of dishes, but at this restaurant we serve it over baked salmon.”

“Huh.”

Half an hour later, two delectable-smelling pieces of salmon have been plated with some of Eliot’s romesco sauce smeared on top. The rest of the wine is split between them, poured into their mugs which have been rinsed of the remaining tea. They go back out to their little table.

That first bite, where Eliot gets to taste for the first time the way the flavors blend together, is a revelation. It’s so good that Eliot closes his eyes to savor each sensation. He swallows it down along with a lump in his throat. “This,” he tells Toby.

Toby waits patiently with an inviting smile on his face, but it soon becomes apparent Eliot isn’t going to say anything further. “This…?” Toby prompts him.

“This is what I was looking for.” He just didn’t know it.

Toby’s smile widens. “You did an amazing job,” he says.

Eliot shakes his head. “I didn’t do this.”

“Sure, you did,” Toby says. “I guided you, yes, but you put in the effort. You prepared and cooked the ingredients. You combined them all in the correct amounts to bring about the right consistency and flavor. I saw you add more olive oil and wine when you were displeased with the results.”

“I was just trying to match the stuff I tasted earlier,” Eliot explains.

Toby shrugs. “Still. You remembered and you copied it. And next time, you will add your own little flourish. Just like you did with the tea.”

Eliot stares at the food in front of him. He created this? Yes, he did. But it was Toby’s recipe, Toby’s sauce. The sauce that he originally ruined. All he had been doing was making up for his mistake.

But...but it wouldn’t be Toby’s sauce that the restaurant patrons would eat later today. It was Eliot’s. Eliot’s hard work and effort would feed dozens of people, if the volume of sauce was anything to go by. He would help make their lives a little happier, a little easier, a little more delicious. Yes, he had ruined the sauce in the first place, but he had fixed his mistake.

Did that count for anything?

“Eat your food before it gets cold,” Toby tells him gently. Eliot complies.

When they have finished eating, Eliot washes their dishes while Toby puts everything away where it belongs and cleans up the discarded vegetable skins. They don’t say anything further until it’s time to part ways. The sky is just beginning to lighten, and the sun will be up soon. Eliot feels both exhausted and energized.

“You can come back again tonight,” Toby says. “If you want. I can teach you how I prepared that salmon. Or if there’s something else you’d like to learn.”

Eliot knows he shouldn’t. He should call his employer and cancel the job. Leave Antwerp, leave Europe. Go - somewhere. Anywhere.

“I’d like that,” he says instead.

Toby smiles and nods, and Eliot can’t help but smile back. It feels a little strange on his face, like he hasn’t smiled in weeks. Maybe longer. Far, far too long.

It feels nice. It feels good.

\---

“Her name is Ellie Mae.”

Eliot stares at the baby, who stares right back. She burbles and throws her little fists around, bouncing in her father’s arms. Father. Wes is a father. Eliot shouldn’t be surprised, yet when he arrived in Indy and Wes said he had someone for Eliot to meet, Eliot had been expecting a dog or a cat. Not an entire miniature human.

Of course, Mina and Wes have been married for a few years now, so a kid is hardly unexpected. But it’s just so...normal. And Eliot hasn’t done normal for a very long time.

So it takes him a minute to adjust to this - this new reality. He’s only just met Mina for the first time ever, and now Wes is showing him this baby, holding her like she’s made of pure gold.

“She’s beautiful,” Eliot says, because it seems like the right thing to say, and also because it’s true. Her skin is closer to Mina’s soft, golden coloring, and she has Mina’s curly black hair and Wes’ striking eyes. Ellie Mae blows a raspberry at Eliot, who can’t help but smile. He remembers teaching his little cousins how to do that, among other things. Playing peek-a-boo and telling them scary stories and teaching them silly pranks to play on their friends. Eliot sucks his cheeks in to make a fish face at Ellie, who shrieks with delight.

“Do you want to hold her?”

Eliot blinks out of the trance Ellie’s holding over him. “What?”

Wes smooshes his face against Ellie’s cheek and gives her a series of kisses. “I said,” he repeats, “do you want to hold her?”

Of course, Eliot has held babies before. Yet the question - and its answer - feels loaded. Can someone with as much blood on his hands hold something so pure and innocent without destroying it?

A few months ago, Eliot probably would have said no. But after spending a couple of months with Toby and then travelling a little just for kicks instead of for work, Eliot feels fresher than he has in years. He  _ feels _ . That was something he hadn’t noticed he’d stopped doing, but once he started back up again, it was striking how much feeling had been missing from his life. So now Eliot only hesitates a moment before nodding. “Sure.”

Wes comes over to where Eliot is sitting on the couch. Mina had stuck around for a little while to chat with Eliot and get to know him, but now she’s gone to get some much-deserved rest while the two men take care of the baby. Wes carries his daughter like she’s a porcelain doll, places her gently into Eliot’s arms.

Something squeezes in Eliot’s heart as Ellie stares up at him, happy and cooing. “She looks so much like you.” And then, because even in this overwhelming moment he can’t help teasing his friend, he adds, “Poor kid.”

Wes laughs. He’s sitting so close to Eliot now, unwilling to move away from his daughter even though he clearly trusts Eliot to know what he’s doing. “We named her after our grandmothers. Eleanor is my grandma, and Margaret is Mina’s. Ellie Mae. We talked about doing Margaret Eleanor instead, and calling her Maggie for short. It’s a little less old fashioned-sounding. But I like Ellie. It sounds like the name of the man who saved my life.”

Eliot is so used to being called Spence by Wes that it takes him a moment to connect the dots. When he does, he’s floored. “You call her Ellie after me?”

Wes shrugs, dips his head a little. “It’s more of a happy coincidence, but yeah.”

Eliot doesn’t know what to say. Tears fill his eyes and he has to blink rapidly to push them back down again. He stares down at the little wonder in his arms, who hasn’t stopped smiling once. She reaches out to his face with her tiny, pudgy hands, and grabs hold of his cheek. He puffs his cheeks out just to hear her giggle again. One lone tear escapes and makes its way down his face.

“Spence?” Wes sounds alarmed. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Eliot says gruffly, keeping his eyes on Ellie. “Yeah, I’m good.” He makes another fish face, which seems to be her favorite.

They keep their attention on Ellie for a long while, not really feeling any need to fill their interactions with pointless small talk. They aren’t exactly silent, since they talk and make noises at the baby, but if she weren’t with them, Eliot knows they’d have fallen into a companionable silence by now. It’s refreshingly comfortable.

“You’re really good with kids,” Wes says after a while. Eliot bounces Ellie on his knee, which she seems to enjoy immensely.

“I had lots of little cousins,” Eliot says. “The older girls were usually in charge of taking care of them, but I had to do my share of helping out, too.”

“And now you have a niece,” Wes says.

Eliot looks up at Wes, a little startled. Yes, they were brothers in arms once upon a time, but now? They’ve drifted apart. In the last few years, communication has been infrequent, visits nonexistent until Eliot showed up in Indy a couple days ago. He swallows down the emotions threatening to spill out. “I do?”

Wes lays a hand on Eliot’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “Of course. Come visit her any time you’re in the area.”

“I will,” Eliot promises. “Can - can I ask you a favor?” He has no right to request anything of an ordinary citizen, but this isn’t the sort of thing he can ask of Vance.

“What is it?”

“Would you mind just... checking up on my folks back home every once in a while? See how they’re doing? I can give you my Auntie Mel’s phone number,” Eliot says.

“I can do that,” Wes says hesitantly. “But...but why not…?”

“Do it myself?” Eliot finishes for him. “I can’t, Wes. Don’t ask me why. I would do it if I could.” He doesn’t know if his reasons would make sense. Doesn’t know if they’re even logical. But he does have reasons, and if Wes were to press him, he would explain.

Wes doesn’t press. He doesn’t look happy, but he nods his acceptance. “Sure, Spence. I can do that.”

Relief washes over Eliot and he grins, broad and happy. He can’t remember the last time he felt this good. Soon thereafter, Mina returns from her nap and Eliot offers to make them all dinner. Mina protests, but when Eliot insists, she relents. The food he makes them that night is some of the best any of them have ever eaten, and Eliot has eaten in five-star restaurants around the world.

Food, he decides, just tastes better with family.

\---

Nearly ten years after leaving the Army, Eliot is approached by a man with a job. He refuses at first. The man wants him to work on a team, and Eliot doesn’t like teams much. Especially when the man shows him the other people’s profiles. One is insane, the other is an egotistical baby. Thanks, no thanks. Eliot walks away.

He’s almost out the door before the man says another name that makes him stop in his tracks: “Nate Ford.”

Eliot turns back around. “What about him?” Eliot knows him by reputation mostly, but also from a few close calls on jobs. Ford is good at what he does - did - and he’s smart. Tragic what happened to his family. Unfathomable.

“He’s going to run the operation,” the man tells him.

Eliot frowns. “You already secured him?”

The man hesitates, blowing his hand. “Yes.” This guy is a terrible liar. Eliot glares at him. “Well, no. Not yet. But I will.”

Eliot snorts. An honest man like Ford running a heist operation? Eliot would almost pay money to see that. “Fine. I’m in. But only if Ford is.”

“Deal. Yes, absolutely,” the man babbles. “I will get Ford and then I will send you the details.”

“Whatever.”

He doesn’t know then how his life is about to change. If he did, he might not have agreed to take up Dubenich’s offer.

But years later when he’s cooking dinner for his team - his family - in an industrial kitchen in Portland while they laugh and joke and tease each other, he’s glad he did. He’s stumbled, he’s fallen, he’s gotten back up more times than he can count. He did things he’s not proud of. He became someone he couldn’t recognize. But without all that, he wouldn’t be here, now.

Wasn’t that worth it?

\---

_ Excerpt of official transcript from Patient E.S.’s eighth one-on-one therapy session in the Pacific Northwest Addiction and Recovery Institute, Anger Counselling and Management Center. _

**48:36 ES:** Will you be here tomorrow for Visiting Day?

**48:45 DL:** No, tomorrow is Dr. Mehta’s turn to supervise visits. She’ll be here. I will be hiking a beautiful little trail out a ways past Multnomah Falls.

**49:08 ES:** Oh, okay.

**49:12 DL:** I’ll see you on Monday, though.

**49:20 ES:** Actually…

**49:32 DL:** Yes?

**49:58 ES:** Never mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter, y'all!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: racial slurs, including the n-word. It's blanked out but still obvious what Huber said.

T-Plus-10 Days

Eliot woke up early Sunday morning. Of course, he woke up early most mornings, but today he roused with a purpose: today was their big chance to expose Huber for the bigoted racist that he was. If this didn’t go as planned, they might have more chances in the future, but they would be impromptu and rushed. This was the big one, the one they had specifically planned for.

Even though it was Sunday, so technically a day for the residents to have more freedom than the other six days of the week, they still had to get up for morning meditation. Huber’s eyes were red and puffy as he joined Eliot in the large gatherings room, like he hadn’t slept at all.

“Y’okay, man?” he asked Huber, all friendly concern.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Huber grumbled. “It felt like my room was a million degrees.”

Parker had sneaked into Huber’s room before he went to sleep last night and fiddled with the thermostat. It still read as 70 degrees, but she had turned it up to 78. That eight degree difference must have felt like a sauna. “That sucks.”

Huber pinned him with a scathing look. “Ya think?”

Eliot blinked at him, putting a kicked puppy dog expression on his face. “Jeez, who pissed in your Cheerios.”

Huber rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed but trying to hold himself back from saying anything else hurtful. “Ethan, I’m - I didn’t mean it. I’m just tired.”

Eliot shrugged. “‘S fine.” But when it came time for them to settle into their meditation, Eliot made sure to sit closer to Jared than to Huber.

So now Huber was tired, frustrated, fed up,  _ and _ he had alienated his only friend at the Institute. There was no reason left for him to try staying. If they’d done their jobs correctly, Huber was going to leave by any means necessary - even if that meant revealing the truth of what he’d done to Mr. Undar.

\---

Adrian’s leg bounced uncontrollably as he watched visitors filter into the large gatherings room, searching for Papadokalis. He glared at a little brat who dared to come to close - one of Sam’s children, it looked like. He glanced at the clock for what felt like the hundredth time in five minutes; yes, visiting time lasted a few hours, but Adrian was anxious to get this process going. The sooner he got out of this nuthouse, the better. Maybe Papadokalis could have him back at work by tomorrow morning.

A thin blonde woman came bouncing through the entry and launched herself at Ethan, who caught her easily. Whoa. Ethan had never said his wife was so hot. He reluctantly tore his eyes away from her to keep scouring every face that entered. Next was a tall Black man. No idea who he was here to visit, so Adrian ignored him. Another family, someone’s parents, Jared’s sister. Adrian sighed and glanced at the clock again. Only three minutes had passed.

Would it have killed Papadokalis to show up right on time to put Adrian out of his misery? Was he going to show up halfway through the allotted time like he had on Wednesday and -

Wait, no - there he was! He didn’t look quite the same as he had on Wednesday - his hair wasn’t gelled and he wasn’t wearing a suit - but there was no mistaking that cocky expression and those crooked teeth.

Adrian stood up and hurried over to Papadokalis. He’d only taken a few steps, however, before the tall Black man ran into him, not looking where he was going.

“Hey,” Adrian snapped. “What are you, blind?”

“Man, what’s your problem?” the man whined. “You ran into me.”

Dr. Mehta, who had been talking to Jared’s family, came over, frowning. “Now, Adrian. What do we do when we become upset and -”

Adrian had had enough. For nearly two weeks he’d had to listen to her yammer on about outdated Freudian bullshit and calming mantras and other useless fuckwittery. He couldn’t take another minute - and he didn’t have to. Not anymore. “Oh, shut  _ up _ , you stupid Paki bitch.”

The whole room froze. Even those who hadn’t heard what Adrian said directly felt the hush descend over the room and stopped what they were doing to watch the unfolding drama.

“Excuse me, Adrian, I don’t believe -” Dr. Mehta started.

“Fuck  _ off _ .” He didn’t care that everyone was staring at him, he didn’t care that some of them were whispering behind his back. He had some things to say, and now was his chance. He had to seize it. Never let it be said that Adrian Huber didn’t know when it was his moment. “Can’t you lay off me for one fucking minute?”

“Dude,” Ethan said. “There’s children. Can you not?”

A couple of the visitors began edging towards the door. An orderly started forward, but Dr. Mehta gestured him back. “We can work through this,” she said to Adrian in her most patronizing tone. “I’m sure Adrian doesn’t really mean what he’s saying.”

“Yes, I fucking  _ do _ ,” Adrian snapped. “I’m through with this bullshit place. I’m through with singing kumbaya and holding hands and pretending like people are reasonable and you can work things out just by  _ talking _ to them.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Dr. Mehta tried again. “But you still have a few more weeks with us and -”

“ _ No. _ Do you not understand English? I’m not staying here anymore.” He glanced at Papadokalis, but the lawyer was staring at him just like everyone else. Adrian frowned. What the hell was the matter with him?

“You’ve been mandated by the court to -”

“I don’t give a  _ shit _ ,” Adrian yelled.

“Man, calm down,” the Black man started.

“Mind your own business, n----r.” The word flew out of Adrian’s mouth before he could stop it. Shit, that was a little too far. Now everyone was really agitated, and Adrian caught a glimpse of Ethan’s face, thunderous with rage. His wife was clinging to him, perhaps keeping him from coming forward to punch Adrian, although the look on her face said she kinda wanted to punch him herself. Well, whatever. Adrian didn’t need them. Ethan was just as much of a sheep as the rest of these morons.

“The court can take its mandate and shove it,” Adrian said, regaining control of the situation. Just pretend like that hadn’t happened, get them focused on the real problem. “This place is a sham. This ‘doctor’ -” he pointed at Mehta - “doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about. Anyone who listens to her is an idiot.” A new presence entered the room, this one with commanding authority: the director of the Anger Management program. Good, let her bear witness to this. “I don’t have a problem with anger, I have a problem with stupid foreigners like her coming in and taking our jobs, our property, our land, and then squandering them. They just take and take and take and never give anything back. And they do a half-assed, pathetic job because they’re too lazy or stupid or whatever - I don’t know. And you all think I should play nice and make friends with them, when what they really need is a reality check and a one-way ticket back home.”

Nobody had moved while Adrian spilled out everything he’d been dying to say for the last two weeks. Longer. He’d been wanting to say all this for years. Now, he finally finished crossing those last few feet towards Papadokalis and spoke just to him, yet loud enough for everyone to hear. “That’s why I did it. That’s why I attacked that Ch- that man in Safeway. He stole something from me, and I wanted to teach him a lesson. I’m so sick of people thinking they can take whatever they want and walk all over me just because I’m white and they’re not. Like I should feel guilty or something.”

“Uh, okay?” Papadokalis looked completely nonplussed.

“So...so I’m taking you up on your offer,” Adrian said. “You’re going to get me out of here and back to my real life? You said you had some people who will back me.”

“Me?” the man said, glancing around. “I have never seen you before in my life.”

This man - the man Adrian would have sworn up and down was Papadokalis - spoke with an Italian accent. Adrian felt the color drain from his face. “Y-yes, you did. You came here on Wednesday.”

The man shook his head. “No, certainly not. I am here to see my beautiful wife. She does not get a day off this week, so I come to support her.” He took a step towards Dr. Mehta and wrapped his arm around her waist.

Adrian stared. This had to be a nightmare. This couldn’t be real. “No, you - you…” He looked around. Every person still left in the room was glaring at him. The director was whispering something to an orderly, who nodded and left. Adrian looked at Ethan. Maybe he’d been too hasty to dismiss him earlier. Even a dumb redneck could have his uses… “Ethan, I -”

“Oh, I know exactly what you mean,” Ethan said, folding his arms. His voice was amiable, but had an edge to it that made Adrian flinch. “I’m part Cherokee on my mother’s side, so I know all about foreigners coming in and making a travesty of my country.”

The orderly came back and said to the director loud enough for Adrian to hear, “The police will be here in about twenty minutes.”

The director nodded. “He can wait in my office until then.”

It took Adrian about two seconds too long to realize they were coming for him. He tried to dodge, but two orderlies worked together to flank him and take him down. He yelled and flailed, but he was no match against their strength. As the orderlies dragged Adrian down the hall to the director’s office, he took one last glance back and saw the strangest thing: Ethan, his wife, Dr. Mehta, not-Papadokalis, and the tall Black man had moved together like a united team and were watching him get dragged away, all smirking.

“I’ve been set up,” Adrian gasped, realization dawning. “ _ I’ve been set up _ !”

“Right, of course,” the director said, following along behind. “Because that makes so much sense. Tell it to the police when they get here. I’m sure they could use a good laugh today.” 

\---

Eliot had to wait until the middle of the night before he managed to slip out of his room, collect his belongings from the intake area, and leave through his bedroom window, the same way Parker had slipped in. He’d tried to leave during the confusion of the police arriving and visitor hours being suspended, but an orderly caught him and shoved him back inside. Then Sophie had tried to give him permission to leave and go into town for a few hours, but the director overrode her, saying their program wasn’t in the practice of allowing patients out for field trips. Once a patient was taken in, they stayed in the Institute for the full six weeks, unless in matters of true emergency.

So Eliot went to bed at the usual time and stayed quiet until he was certain the coast was clear. He didn’t have his car or truck - in order to play the part more convincingly, Nate had dropped him off that first day. Portland wasn’t the sort of city that had taxis roaming the streets at all hours, so he figured he could walk home. It would only take a couple hours.

What he hadn’t banked on was two figures waiting for him as he left the clinic’s grounds. He tensed at first, ready to take on whatever danger could be lurking in the middle of the night, then relaxed as the forms turned and he realized it was Parker and Hardison.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “What’re you guys doing here?”

Hardison broke into a big grin. “Wonderin’ when you’d get outta there. Figured you could use a ride.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at his car waiting half a block away.

Parker moved fluidly over to Eliot’s side and draped her arm over his shoulders, just like she had that time she’d been in rehab with Nate. Eliot hesitated for a moment before wrapping his arm around her waist. “Where’s Nate and Soph?”

Parker shrugged, the movement rippling up and down Eliot’s side. “They disappeared after we told Tasya that Huber had been re-arrested. Nate said you’d find your own way out.”

Eliot snorted. Typical Nate, so full of compassion.

“Besides,” Parker continued, “we missed you. I didn’t want to wait until morning to see you again.”

Eliot looked at her, his heart tugging slightly. He swallowed. “I missed you, too,” he admitted. Glanced at Hardison. “Both of you.”

Seemingly encouraged by this, Hardison stuck out his hand for their special high five. Eliot obliged, but then, instead of leaving it at that, he grabbed hold of Hardison’s hand and held on. Just for another moment or two. Hardison’s eyes lit up in the dark, full of happiness and delight. “Wanna come home with us?”

Eliot didn’t let go, but he shook his head. “Nah. I gotta add the ingredients just a little at a time.”

Hardison and Parker exchanged a puzzled look. “Come again?” Hardison asked.

Eliot sighed. “Baby steps,” he explained. “I ain’t ready to just jump into bed with y’all. I don’t know what this is gonna look like, but I wanna take it slow as we figure it out.”

Hardison nodded. “Slow. Got it. I can do slow.” He breathed out a long sigh. “I’m an expert at slow by now.”

Parker, however, looked less than happy. “I don’t like waiting. Once I know what I want, I want it all at once.”

Eliot rolled his eyes. “Shocking.”

Hardison reached out to her with his free hand, which just looked stupid ‘cause now his arms were crossed over each other. Still, Parker took his hand, and now all three of them were connected to each other. “It’ll be worth it, babe. I just know it.”

They stood like that for a moment before Eliot finally dropped Hardison’s hand and unwrapped his arm from Parker’s waist. “I wanna go home,” he growled. “I want my own bed and my punching bag. I can’t believe you wouldn’t let me sock Huber when he called Hardison that word.” Without waiting for Parker’s reply, he continued, “And in the morning I’m coming down to the brewpub first thing to find out what horrible changes you made while I was locked up.”

Parker and Hardison grinned at each other, like they were so frickin’ happy that Eliot was back and as grumpy as ever. He supposed it was a nice change from the way he’d been acting for the last few weeks. He’d make them an apology meal tomorrow. Maybe some nice steaks, medium rare like was properly intended, not that well-done rubber Hardison liked.

“Where to, man?” Hardison asked, sliding into the driver’s seat. Eliot took the passenger side, while Parker sat in the back and leaned forward between them.

“St. John’s.” They’d never seen his house before. This was a step in the right direction, a little acknowledgement that he was ready to share part of his life with them. Even if he wouldn’t let them spend the night, no matter how much they begged.

“Hey,” Parker said. When Eliot turned to look at her, she leaned forward to press a sweet, soft kiss to his lips. He sighed, content. She sat back and grinned at him, then darted her eyes meaningfully towards Hardison.

Eliot looked at him; Hardison bit his lip, strangely shy. “You don’t gotta, man,” he said, but Eliot steeled his nerves and moved a little closer. Encouraged, Hardison surged forward and kissed him just a little too hard, a little too needy. Eliot closed his eyes, shutting out the voice in the back of his head that still insisted this was wrong. It wasn’t. Nothing had ever felt more right.

Hardison pulled away reluctantly and turned the key over in the ignition. Together, they drove off into the dark Portland night.

\---

Rebecca “Bex” Lehman sat back in her chair and smiled across the table at her wife. She was glad Kiki had talked her into going out and leaving the kids with her mom for the whole night. It’d been ages since they’d done the whole date thing, and Kiki’s restaurant choice was outstanding. They had tickets to the HUMP! Film Festival afterwards, and then an empty house all to themselves for the rest of the night. They planned to make the most of it (though in Bex’s experience, that probably meant they’d be asleep within an hour of getting home; maybe Bex could sneak in a nap at the Festival to have a little more energy).

“This place is amazing,” Bex said, taking a sip of her beer. Her eyes followed the path of a woman whose sole purpose in the restaurant seemed to be to flit around like a blonde hummingbird, talking to random patrons. She didn’t wait or bus tables, so what was she doing? Was she the owner?

“I know, right? Cor told me about it. I guess it just opened up a few months ago. Cor’s all about it,” Kiki said.

“They know all the best restaurants,” Bex admitted. “I’m glad you listened to them.” She would definitely have to come back to the Bridgeport Brewpub sometime. Maybe introduce a few coworkers to the place.

“You want a dessert menu?” Kiki asked, glancing around for the waitress.

“Only if you want me bloated and comatose after the Festival tonight.”

Kiki waggled her eyebrows at Bex. “Kinky.”

Bex laughed. “No, I’m good. If you get something, I’ll steal a few bites.” Her eyes went back to the blonde woman. 

“You keep staring at her,” Kiki said, amused.

Bex shook her head, trying to bring her attention back to her wife and date night. “Sorry. It’s just she looks really familiar and I can’t quite put my finger on where I know her from.”

“Work?”

Bex shrugged. “Maybe.”

“I’m going to run to the bathroom real quick. If the waitress swings by, ask for a dessert menu. It can’t hurt to at least look.”

Bex watched her walk away, enjoying the view. It was nice that twelve years into their relationship - and six years into their marriage - Kiki could still turn her head. Well, if Kiki was going to get a dessert, maybe Bex could have a coffee. That might give her enough of a boost to keep her up for some post-Festival entertainment.

Once Kiki disappeared into the bathroom, however, Bex’s attention went back to the blonde woman. She darted behind the counter to say something to the tall Black man who was tending bar with a gregarious smile and a generous pour. The man listened to what she said and then beamed at her. She grinned in response, her whole face lighting up. It was a touching moment, and it made Bex smile.

If Bex hadn’t been so focused on the two people behind the counter, she might have missed the man who came out of the kitchen to say something to them. Her jaw dropped - that man was unmistakable. His hair was shorter and he was limping pretty hard on his left leg, but Bex would recognize Ethan Scott anywhere.

Ethan Scott, who had disappeared from the Institute in the middle of the night. Ethan Scott, who had taken a full week to really open up in one-on-one therapy, and even then she could tell he’d been holding back. Ethan Scott, who had seemed oddly connected with another patient, one who had turned out to not be a good fit in the rehab center. Ethan Scott, whose very existence disappeared after he did: records, schedules, background - everything. Ethan Scott, whose wife was so sweet and bubbly and Bex now realized was the woman she’d been watching this whole time. Dellia, she remembered. Dellia Scott.

As she watched, Ethan stooped to grab something from under the bar, and as he came up she saw his hand brush ever-so-subtly against the bartender’s leg. The bartender said something to him, which made Ethan grin. Dellia threw herself between the two men, arms draped around both of their shoulders. The taller man had to stoop a little, but he didn’t seem put out by this. He wrapped his arm around Dellia’s waist. Ethan rolled his eyes and pinned her with a withering look. She didn’t seem perturbed by this; quite the opposite, she started giggling. Ethan’s expression softened.

“Can I get you anything else?”

Bex jumped. She’d been so wrapped up in the scene behind the counter that she hadn’t heard the waitress - Amy, she’d said her name was - come over. “Uh, the, uh - the dessert menu,” Bex stumbled out. Amy started to walk away. “Wait. Um, that man over there.” She pointed to the bar. “Who is he?”

“The tall one? That’s the owner, Mr. Hardison,” Amy said.

“No, the shorter one,” Bex said.

“Ah. That’s our head chef, Eliot. When he’s around, anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

Amy shrugged. “He and Mr. Hardison and Parker - the woman back there with them - have another job that sometimes takes them away from the restaurant.”

Bex’s head spun. Maybe Ethan had a twin. Well, if he had a twin, then so did Dellia. That didn’t make any sense. But surely his “other job” didn’t involve sneaking into rehabilitation clinics and exposing racist assholes in front of everyone by conning them into thinking some hoity toity lawyer was going to defend their right to beat up immigrants in court?

Did it?

“Can you send him my compliments, please?” Bex asked. Amy nodded. “Tell him the baked salmon was perfect. The, uh - the cayenne looks like it was just the right touch.”

Amy blinked. “I didn’t know he put cayenne in the baked salmon,” she said. “Huh. Sure. And I’ll be right back with that menu.”

Amy caught up with Eliot/Ethan just as he was breaking away from the other two to return to the kitchen. He listened to what she had to say, head tilted downwards to better hear her. His head snapped up suddenly, his eyes scouring the dining area. When they landed on Bex, his expression was inscrutable. She wondered, suddenly, inexplicably, if it had been a mistake to draw attention to herself, if she shouldn’t have just skipped the dessert menu and left as soon as Kiki returned.

But then his lips twitched into a ghost of a smile. Bex relaxed. Eliot/Ethan nodded at her, almost imperceptibly. She nodded back. Glanced over at the two people behind the bar. The man was now trying out fancy bottle flips while not-Dellia cheered him on. Bex raised her eyebrows.

Eliot/Ethan rolled his eyes, but the look he cast towards them was full of fondness and love. Bex grinned. He made a gesture like he was taking a pinch of something and sprinkling onto a dish. Indicating, she assumed, that the recipe experiment was going well. At least she hoped so.

“What are you doing?”

Bex jumped for the second time in five minutes; Kiki stared at her, amused. “Nothing,” Bex said, as if she’d been caught doing something wrong. Which was ridiculous, so she added, “Turns out I know the head chef.”

“Oh, cool. Let’s find out what he recommends for dessert.”

Eliot/Ethan waggled his eyebrows at her and shot her a thumbs up. Bex rolled her eyes - such a  _ guy _ reaction to seeing two lesbians. She made a shooing gesture - best not to keep him from the kitchen too long.

He gave a brief wave before limping back into the kitchen. Bex wondered if she should say something to someone at work - the director, maybe - but decided it wasn’t worth it. How could you chase a man who simply no longer existed? All she had to prove he ever existed were her memories and a few transcripts of their sessions she had printed out. Even the security footage from the week and a half he’d spent at the clinic had been tampered with.

Amy brought over two decadent pieces of molten chocolate cake (“Compliments of the chef, and your bill is already paid for.”), and Bex decided it wasn’t worth pursuing. 

Let the man enjoy his cayenne-and-chocolate pretzels. She had a feeling he’d more than earned them.

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for hanging in until the end! You guys have been amazing!
> 
> Super duper huge shout-out to my betas, N-Chan and Eggy-Tea. I don't know what I would have done without them. 
> 
> Want more of this 'verse? I have so many more ideas. Seriously, they keep spawning more and more bunnies. So I compiled a list of them and would like to hear from my readers about which one(s) you'd like to see next. Fill out the form here: https://forms.gle/841MQRQ5BncnFmkL7


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